


Absolution

by illwick



Series: Unwind [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Come as Lube, Consensual Kink, Dark Thoughts, Dom!John, Dominance, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Forced Orgasm, Hand Jobs, Hard Limits, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Submission, Violent Sex, Voyeurism, gagging, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sherlock and John must reconcile with their pasts in order to determine their future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gentle readers, never fear, I'm hard at work banging away (hahaha) at your requests for the "Fantasy" installment... But in the meantime, here's an Angst-Fest in 7 parts to hold you over until then.

"Harder." Sherlock is barely able to grit out the command through clenched teeth. John had been minimalist with his prep at Sherlock's request, but the pain has given way to pleasure all too quickly, and it does nothing to quench the smoldering _want_ coursing through Sherlock's veins, setting his nerve endings alight.

Mercifully, John complies. From behind him, he leans forward and presses one hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades, forcing his torso down until it's flush with the mattress. His other hand reaches over Sherlock's head to grip the headboard, improving his leverage. His thrusts go from vigorous to punishing.

"Nnngh." Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and leans into the sensation, _willing_ himself to _let go_. But his brain won't have it; the events of the previous night play over and over on endless repeat, mocking him, _taunting_ him with his own infuriating stupidity and mortifying fragility.

He was _useless, worthless,_ he deserved so much worse than this. 

John should hit him. He'd deserve it. He imagines the pain flaring bright across his skin, the rush of merciful endorphins that would follow in its wake, and moans at the thought.

"Oh, yeah." Behind him, John misinterprets his vocalisation entirely, under the mistaken impression that Sherlock is getting what he wants from their current encounter.

He wants to ask John to hit him. But that would be idiotic. Ever since they started _unwinding,_ John has always maintained hitting as one of his non-negotiable limits. It conjures up bad memories for him, Sherlock knows, of times in the past when he'd hit Sherlock outside of a sexual context, in a very non-consensual way. To this day, it is one of John's deepest sources of shame.

And Sherlock doesn't want to be hit, either. Not really. At least, he never has until this particular moment. He'd put hitting on his list of hard limits, too-- actual pain during a session was a very different animal from the _discomfort born of excessive pleasure_ that he experiences when John overstimulates him.

But today it all feels different. Today, he just needs something-- _anything_ \-- to make it all stop.

He gathers his wits about him as best he can with John riding him mercilessly from behind. He struggles to take a full breath and vocalise his request.

"John. John, _please._ My throat. _Please."_

John pauses, then Sherlock feels his hand move hesitantly from its location between his shoulder blades around to rest across his throat. Sherlock sighs and nods, nearly weeping with desperation. It's not a blow, but breathplay is something they've negotiated, something he can _have_ \-- it'll have to be good enough.

Behind him, John is speaking. Sherlock forces himself back into the moment.

"...you wanted? Sweetheart?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I said, that'll mean this is... Level 3. When we started you said you wanted Level 2. Are you okay with Level 3?"

"Yes, yes, please, fine, just... my throat, please." 

A few weeks ago, he and John had had a negotiation in which John finally expressed his desire to give Sherlock more thorough aftercare following their sessions. They'd agreed upon a series of Levels for their sessions of _unwinding_ \-- 1 being the mildest, 3 the most intense-- that would have different types of aftercare for each. John's made a habit of asking Sherlock what level he wants at the start of each session, provided it's not after a case (after a case, sessions are kept at a default of Level 1, at Sherlock's insistence).

But tonight's not the aftermath of a case. It's the aftermath of a weekend of separation.

A fucked up, miserable weekend of unacceptable separation.

This never should have happened.

_Never._

_Fuck._

John's hand closes lightly around Sherlock's throat and he resumes thrusting. Sherlock leans into his touch, willing himself to go under, to surrender, to let all the thoughts in his head finally be silenced by the all-consuming presence of _John,_ Captain of his transport, vanquisher of demons, conductor of light.

"More. Please."

John's hand tightens fractionally.

It's not enough.

"Fuck, John, _please._ Tighter! _Please!"_

John's hand squeezes ever so slightly harder. It's enough to make Sherlock's vision dim at the edges, but he still wants _more._ His thoughts are racing, his transport is refusing to give up command, and he's hurling towards some dark abyss that has nothing to do with the floating ecstasy he always experiences when they _unwind._ Something's gone twisted, something is wrong.

He leans forward into John's grip. His airflow cuts off entirely.

No more than a few seconds pass before John's hands are gone completely. It takes Sherlock a moment to realise John's pulled out of him as well; he feels open and bereft and utterly disorientated as he twists his head around to try and make sense of what's happening.

John is crouched at the foot of the bed, looking visibly shaken. He's still hard, but he's covered in a sickly-looking sweat and he's trembling from head to toe.

It takes Sherlock a moment to realise that John is speaking: "Stop. Stop. Stop."

Sherlock sways precariously in his position on his hands and knees. The world feels like it's upside down. He feels nauseous.

There's a long pause, each of them regaining their bearings.

After what feels like an eternity, John begins to shuffle towards Sherlock on his knees, hands held in front of him in a gesture of supplication. Instead of being accusatory, John's voice is laden with earnest concern. "Sweetheart. Sweetheart, what's wrong? What were you doing? _What were you doing there?_ You were choking yourself half to death..."

John leans forward and Sherlock realises that he's trying to pull Sherlock into his arms, to hold him, to comfort him. _Unacceptable._

"Don't touch me." He doesn't mean for it to come out as harshly as it does, but it has the intended effect; John freezes in place, eyes wide in confusion.

"Oh… okay, alright. I won't touch you. I'll stay right here, but I won't touch you."

Sherlock pulls his legs around until he's in a seated position with his knees pulled up to his chest. He rests his forehead between them and tries to make himself breathe. 

He needs to do more than breathe. He needs to _think._ He needs to _fix this._

Finally, he raises his head and meets John's eyes.

John's eyes are beautiful. For so long, Sherlock had considered himself ignorant of beauty, but all it takes is one look into the cerulean blue of John's irises to remind him that that's never been the case. John's eyes speak volumes of compassion and care, they tell the story of a great man and a gentle mind and the most selfless lover and loyal friend the world has ever known.

Emotion swells in Sherlock's chest. He batters it down.

John blinks, unwavering. He's content to wait Sherlock out on this one.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and forces himself to maintain eye contact.

"Victor and I kissed last night."

For his considerable lack of interest in all things to do with the solar system, Sherlock has spent considerable energy on the research of physics, including the state of the interior of a black hole. The collapsing matter giving way to the complete and total absence of time and space had always struck him as fascinating, profound, and here in this moment he can't help but think that this-- _this_ \-- is what it must be like.

He doesn't move. He doesn't dare breathe. Before him, John is motionless, eyes dark and disbelieving. Sherlock feels as though his heart may explode, or, perhaps more likely, fold in on itself, retreating into oblivion, paralysing him in this moment for all of eternity.

John's expression goes from politely neutral to cold and calculating. 

Sherlock doesn't know what to do. There's nothing he can say, nothing he can do that will make any of this okay.

"I... I made a mistake."

John rises slowly off the bed, the vulnerability of his nudity at complete odds with the fury written across his face.

"Get dressed. We're not doing this here, naked, in our bed."

He grabs his dressing gown and walks towards the door.

Sherlock's heart leaps into his throat. "Where are you going? You're... you're not leaving?"

John turns back to look at him, his expression suddenly hopelessly weary. 

"No. I'm just going to go put the kettle on."

And with that, he pads off down the hallway, leaving Sherlock huddled on the bed, feeling more alone than he ever has before.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two days earlier..._

John plodded up the stairs with his work bag slung over his shoulder, mentally adding items to his ever growing "To-Do" list before his 18:00 train. He'd handed off Rosie to his mother that morning, but it had been a chaotic few days in their household; Sherlock had been out on a case (no more than a Four, he'd insisted, so John's assistance had not been required), so the flat was strewn with various newspaper clippings, evidence, and photographs, and John could say with near certainty that Sherlock hadn't made an effort to clean any of it up since resolving the case last night. Rosie had been particularly demanding over the last 48 hours (as if she were somehow able to predict that John was planning on leaving her for the weekend), and the resulting explosion of toys and books used to placate her lying about the flat gave the impression that it had been hit by a small hurricane.

With all that on his plate, he hadn't even had time to pack. So even though he'd managed to take the afternoon off from the surgery, he still feels slightly pressed for time when he thinks about all he needs to get done in the next few hours.

He blusters through the doorway to find the flat in startlingly good condition; clearly Sherlock had deigned to pick up a bit (or Mrs. Hudson had caught a glimpse of it and was unable to restrain herself). Before he can process the situation, though, his thoughts are derailed by the emergence of the Holmes brothers from the kitchen, clearly mid-conversation.

"...not saying you have to call him, Sherlock, I'm simply asking that you use common courtesy in your rebuke if he does reach out. Our families have a shared interest in many endeavours, and with his brother's recent promotion within the ministry--"

"Hello, John." Sherlock interrupts Mycroft mid-sentence before plopping down in his chair, a fresh cup of tea in hand.

"Uh, hi. Hello, Mycroft. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Mycroft is here making insufferable demands upon my social life for the greater good of the family dynasty. He was just leaving."

John glances down at the full teacup in Mycroft's hand and cocks his head. Mycroft rolls his eyes and proceeds to seat himself in John's chair without hesitation.

"So as I was _saying,_ Sherlock. You needn't attend tonight's event, I've no illusions about your proclivity for avoiding social interaction. I'm simply asking that _if_ he so happens to reach out, please don't be _rude._ Their family has been dear friends--"

"Allies," Sherlock snarks, not quite under his breath.

 _"Friends_ of ours for generations. Please don't bring your petty quibbles into it."

Sherlock sighs and takes a generous sip of tea. "I'm not making any guarantees."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I'm not even asking you to be polite, I'm simply asking you to keep the drama to a minimum and stay out of the damned gossip columns."

John dumps his bag by the front door and removes his jacket, his interest piqued by this latest revelation. "Who's causing all this drama?"

"No one," replies Sherlock, at the same time as Mycroft responds, "Victor Trevor."

"Who, now?" John makes his way to the kitchen to find the kettle empty. He rolls his eyes and resigns himself to refilling it and putting it back on.

"Victor Trevor," Mycroft drones. "Son of Sir James Trevor, and younger brother of current Cabinet member William Trevor. Philanthropist, activist--he spearheaded that AIDS initiative that was passed through parliament in the early aughts?"

John shakes his head and shrugs, then turns to the sink to rinse out his mug.

"Mycroft, excuse the expression, but do quit trying to stir shit up." Sherlock's tone is calm but with an edge of exasperation that John recognises all too well: Mycroft's slowly getting under his skin. 

John pours his fresh cuppa and returns to the sitting room to spectate the impending row, making himself comfortable on the sofa.

"I'm not trying to stir anything up, brother dear," Mycroft responds with a shrug. "I just thought you should know he's back in the country and that our families will be attending the fundraiser together tonight. He's bound to ask about you."

John's is admittedly intrigued. "And why would he do that?"

Sherlock turns to John and looks him square in the eye. "Mycroft rather fancied himself a matchmaker back in the day and set us up. Fast forward six months and I landed in rehab for the fifth and final time. Boring story, really. Tale as old as time." He swivels his attention back to Mycroft. "Send my regrets, but I'm simply overwhelmed with work at the moment. Not only that, but John is going out of town to attend his class reunion, and it would seem wholly unfair to deprive him of the opportunity to meet Victor face to face." There's a hint of a threat to that sentence, and John feels a quick shiver of anger run down his spine: who exactly _was_ this Victor character, and what the hell had he done to Sherlock that sent him flying off the rails and into rehab for a fifth time? 

Mycroft appears unaffected. He takes a sip of tea and licks his lips. "Have you got any biscuits?"

Sherlock and John answer in perfect unison: "No."

Mycroft sighs. "Very well. I should be on my way, anyhow. John, have a lovely time at your reunion. Sherlock, for the love of God-- or rather, for the love of Mummy-- _please_ behave if Victor comes round. He still has a soft spot for you, and your well-being has always been paramount to him."

Sherlock lets out an audible scoff. "Sure, alright. We'll leave it at that."

Mycroft shoots him a final withering glance before rising, depositing his teacup on the end table, and strolling out the door, with a brief nod in John's direction as he departs.

His footsteps retreat down the staircase and moments later, the front door slams.

"AUGH." Sherlock leaps to his feet like a jack-in-the-box sprung without warning, his hands flying to ruffle his hair in frustration. "What an absolute, complete and utter WANKER." He strides over to the window to stare daggers down at where Mycroft is surely pulling away in his unmarked car.

John settles back into the cushions and takes another drink of tea. "He seems to have struck a nerve there."

"Oh, please, John. Don't give in to his petty flare for the dramatic. He only came by to irk me."

"I'm sure it's how he shows he cares. But seriously, Sherlock--this Victor thing, is that... something I should know about?"

Sherlock returns his gaze to John, abandoning his post by the window. "It's something you already know about, John. I told you about the circumstances of the string of relationships I had before you."

"So what made Victor special?"

For a moment Sherlock pauses, and almost looks wistful. "Nothing. In the end, he was exactly the same as all the others."

John's heart seems to twist in his chest, and he has to consciously tamp down the urge to say something trite and sentimental--which would surely send Sherlock into a tirade. Instead, he just smiles up warmly at Sherlock. "Lucky turn-up for me, then, I suppose."

Sherlock returns his smile, which quickly transitions from _companionable_ to _hungry._ He makes his way over to stand in front of John, peering down at him with an expression of mischievous intent in his eyes.

"Why are you looking so relaxed? When we were texting earlier you said you had a million things to do before tonight, and yet you're lounging about on the sofa drinking tea."

"Well, I wasn't really anticipating coming home to a clean flat. Thanks for that, by the way."

Sherlock shrugs. "My motives weren't altogether altruistic. I thought perhaps if you didn't need to tidy up before you left, we could put that time to better use." And with infinite, impossible grace, he falls to his knees in front of John and places his warm hands on John's kneecaps, pressing his legs apart. "After all, we'll be apart all weekend. Such a shame, really, wouldn't you say?" His hands slowly slide up the length of John's thighs and come to rest on his belt buckle, which he begins to unfasten with his nimble fingers, his eyes never leaving John's.

John's brain has gone offline. Sherlock never fails to incite this reaction in him; the near instantaneous arousal that flares up the moment Sherlock makes his intentions clear renders John completely incapacitated in no time flat. 

John moans. "Mmm. Yes. A shame indeed." He manages to muster enough brain power to coordinate the depositing of his mug onto the coffee table before leaning back to take in the scene before him.

Sherlock has made quick work of his belt buckle and the button of his trousers, and leans forward to take the tab of John's zipper between his teeth. His eyes bore into John's as he slowly drags the zipper down. John inhales and licks his lips.

His cock is already almost fully hard by the time Sherlock begins to tongue wetly at the front of his boxers, his hands massaging John's thighs as he laves slow, luxurious licks along the fabric before snuffling hotly against the head, earning him an earnest twitch in response. With a near-alarming level of dexterity, Sherlock proceeds to use his lips, teeth, and tongue to press the fly of John's boxers open, finally freeing John's cock completely. Sherlock sits back onto his haunches and gives a satisfied smile. John exhales a shaky breath, and his cock gives another desperate twitch, seeking out the now-absent heat that had promised to envelope it.

In all of John's (admittedly considerable) past experiences, he has never encountered anyone who sucks cock with the level of voracious enthusiasm that Sherlock does. He applies himself to it as he does everything about which he is passionate: with complete, devoted, fastidious attention. While in the past John had occasionally gotten the impression that his lovers performed the act out of a sense of obligation, or as part of a tit-for-tat exchanging of pleasure, Sherlock always partakes with outright gusto. 

Sometimes he's insatiably filthy about it, taking John so deeply down his throat that he gags, drool pooling at the corners of his plush lips as he forces himself to swallow around John's considerable girth. Other times, he's a total tease, driving John nearly out of his mind with soft kisses and coquettish kitten licks as he massages his balls to the point that John is ready to come all but untouched. Then there are the times that he simply seems to want to bring John to the brink as effectively as possible, applying _just_ the right amount of suction and pressure coupled with decadent swirls of his tongue, as though reading John's pleasure points from an instruction manual with infallible accuracy.

Sherlock Holmes' mouth has always been heaven on earth, and frankly it's John's cock's (second) favourite place to be. (And it's a _close_ second, at that.)

Sherlock is clearly in an indulgent mood this afternoon. He lowers his lips to suckle just the head of John's cock, flicking his tongue against the slit in gentle probes as his lips pillow around the sensitive skin. John melts into the cushions of the sofa as Sherlock teases him, observing every reaction with those blazing jade-green eyes that fail to miss a single tell.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock's tongue begins to swirl beyond the head, forging a path down John's shaft that his lips follow with due haste. He pulls off entirely to plant a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses from root to tip, then suddenly leans forward and swallows John down entirely, to the point that John can feel the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat.

John's hands fly to Sherlock's hair and he lets out a startled cry, but Sherlock pulls off immediately and resumes mouthing wetly at John's rigid length, making his way all the way down to lap at his balls before licking a stripe back up, shooting John a devilish grin as he swears under his breath, his cock pulsating with desire.

"Je...sus..." John tangles his fingers in Sherlock's unruly curls as he latches his mouth over the head of John's cock once more and begins to bob, taking John ever so slightly deeper with each undulation. His tongue is performing what John is fairly certain is some type of ancient witchcraft; he seems to be simultaneously sucking and licking and doing _something_ delightful with his teeth that John's brain can't fully comprehend at the moment. John can feel his thighs begin to tremble in anticipation.

And then Sherlock starts to moan.

Jesus _Christ._

After all these years, John was fairly certain he should have gotten used to this, but watching Sherlock Holmes fellate him is something akin to a religious experience _every goddamn time,_ and today is no exception.

His cupid's-bow lips look positively sinful sliding up and down John's throbbing length, and his eyes are wide and filled with intent as he fixates on John's face, reading his desires like an open book. His mad-scientist hair is soft and so goddamned _sexy_ twisted in John's fingers, and the sound of his baritone moan is the most pornographic sensation in the world--not to even _start_ on the way the vibrations feel as they work their way from John's cock to his balls to that place inside of him that makes him feel like he's about to turn inside out with maddening, unquenchable lust.

A few more pulls from Sherlock's eager mouth and John is gasping out a warning. Sherlock smirks (how the _hell_ he can manage to look smug with a mouthful of cock is completely beyond John's comprehension) and doubles down on his efforts, taking John deep and increasing the suction all while continuing to tongue him with aplomb. 

John grips his hair tightly and comes, back rising off the sofa, his body constricting into a near-foetal position over Sherlock as he empties himself into his eager mouth. He grunts and moans through gritted teeth, eyes squinting shut as he surrenders himself to the tidal wave of pleasure.

As soon as the last drops of his release have been expelled, John slumps back bonelessly into the cushions. Sherlock continues to gently lick and suck him as he comes down, humming faint sounds of approval to himself before pulling off entirely, careful to avoid overstimulation. He sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then shoots John a dazzling smile.

As much as John would love to simply lie back and bask in the afterglow, he's a sucker for that smile every time. He summons every ounce of strength in his body to sit up straight and pull Sherlock towards him, pressing their lips together in a searing kiss. He can taste himself on Sherlock's lips, a sensation that he always disdained with his past partners, but for some reason with Sherlock, it's the most erotic thing imaginable.

It sometimes boggles John's mind how completely and utterly being with Sherlock reinvented sex for him; besides being the first and only man John has ever been attracted to, being with Sherlock seemed to call into question every single one of John's past judgements and preferences, opening up new avenues of pleasure it had never even occurred to John to explore. And once they added the occasional session of _power dynamics_ exploration to their routine--hell, it was like John had entered a new _dimension_ of sexuality. Every element was so exquisite, sometimes he can't believe this is truly his life.

He breaks the kiss and takes Sherlock by the forearms, urging him to get to his feet. Sherlock complies wordlessly, John's intentions unspoken but understood. He stands before John and unfastens his trousers, freeing his achingly erect cock and guiding it between John's open lips.

Performing this act still feels foreign to John in many ways. The fact he'd never done it until he met Sherlock makes him feel as though he's missing years of practice, and at times he still feels like he's fumbling and uncoordinated in his efforts. In all honesty, taking on anal penetration with Sherlock had come to him much more naturally than this; he felt he could at least call on his (considerable) past experiences in penetration to pinpoint how to gauge the production of pleasure, whereas _this_ had _very_ little to do with cunnilingus, so his prodigiously-honed skills were of absolutely no use. Yet Sherlock seemed to have no complaints-- and he'd never been anything but patient and receptive of John's efforts in all the years they've been together.

Today is no exception. His expression is a gorgeous combination desire and affection as he watches John suck his cock enthusiastically, alternating deep pulls with light suction at the head, producing a bit more saliva than wholly necessary (even with his limited powers of observation, John has noticed Sherlock's penchant for receiving blow jobs that were on the messier side). Before too long, Sherlock's cock is coated in slick, and John raises his left hand to stroke the base of his shaft, stimulating the parts he can't take down due to his rather disappointingly strong gag reflex. Sherlock huffs in affirmation and begins to thrust lightly, and John hums his consent.

Sherlock tangles his fingers in John's hair and moans, and it's only another moment before he releases into John's mouth, the salty tang filling John's senses as he struggles to maintain the rhythm of both his mouth and his hand while Sherlock satisfies himself to the fullest.

Sherlock's cock gives a feeble final pulse and John swallows, flopping back onto the sofa with a desperate gasp. Sherlock collapses next to him a moment later, breathing heavily.

There's a pause, then they both dissolve into giggles.

Christ, John loves him.

The rest of the afternoon is uneventful; John packs his bags while Sherlock composes something lovely and spritely-sounding in the sitting room. Though he's excited for the reunion (and hell, it wasn't even really a proper reunion-- just Stamford organising a few members of the old gang to get a block of rooms at an inn for the weekend), a part of him feels melancholy at the thought of leaving Sherlock, even just for two days. He momentarily contemplates attempting to cajole Sherlock into coming with him, but thinks better of it; Sherlock had politely declined John's offer the first time around, and John understands why-- Sherlock's aversion to social situations was well-documented, and John knows Sherlock becomes incredibly anxious when interacting with people John actually has real affection for. He doesn't want to pressure Sherlock into being someone he's not.

So it's with a kiss and a smile that he departs for the train station. But as the grey cityscape gives way to the rolling hills of the countryside, he can't help shake the notion that he's left a part of himself back on Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this somehow ended up being all porn, no plot. MY BAD.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A trip down memory lane...

INCOMING TEXT FROM: _Unknown Number_  
<26 August 11:28> Was hoping to see you at the fundraiser last night.

<11:30> I’d like to speak with you in person.

<11:36> I have a case for you.

<11:38> Please. Don't be like this. I know you're receiving these texts.  
<11:38> I need your help.  
<11:38> I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.  
<11:40> God knows you don’t owe me a damn thing.

This gives Sherlock pause. He'd initially been firm in his decision not to respond; after all, it was his primary intent to spite Mycroft, who'd stopped by to blather in bland platitudes about social niceties and keeping up appearances, and couldn't Sherlock be so kind as to engage, just this once, _for the sake of the family?_ Stupid, moronic, the lot of it, but now he can't help but wonder...

Was Mycroft's plea some sort of double bluff? Perhaps he _didn't_ want Sherlock interacting with Victor at all, and was employing reverse psychology with the intent of getting him to avoid Victor completely.

After all, Sherlock and Victor hadn't had any opportunity to interact since... well, since everything had fallen apart. And wouldn't Mycroft just find it _hateful,_ Sherlock out with Victor without Mycroft’s meddlesome supervision, Sherlock secure in his newfound life, being the bigger person, benevolent and forgiving and full of social graces? For Sherlock to be _sociable_ and rubbing shoulders with someone as influential as Victor? Oh, it would _eat_ at Mycroft not to be included, Sherlock could lord it over him, and God knows Victor would go along with it, he owed Sherlock at least that much.

Grinning smugly to himself, Sherlock reaches for his mobile to respond.

_Unknown_  
<12:41> The case is of the utmost sensitivity. You’re the only one I know I can trust.

SH  
<12:43> Apologies for my delayed response, Victor, I was in the middle of an experiment and couldn't be distracted.

_Unknown_  
<12:43> Quite alright. But does this mean you'll take the case?

SH  
<12:45> I'll need to know the details. I’ve quite a lot on my plate at the moment. 

_Unknown_  
<12:46> Can we meet in person? I’m staying at Shoreditch House. Meet me at the bar here? Tonight? 8?

SH  
<12:47> See you then.

 

Sherlock tosses his mobile onto the kitchen table with a satisfied smirk. Not only would he get to annoy Mycroft, but there was at least a chance that the case might be interesting as well. This was all shaping up rather nicely, he reasons.

He pauses for a moment in his scheming to consider John. Should he tell John about his plans?

After a moment of hesitation, he concludes that it would be wholly unnecessary. Victor was married now (to some Canadian politician constantly making headlines with his groundbreaking civil rights legislation), and Sherlock had John (not to mention Rosie), so what was the harm in simply working a case together? _"For the sake of our families,"_ he thinks to himself, before shaking Mycroft's pacifying tone out of his head with an irritated huff.

Decision made, his thoughts wander back to John. He misses him. Perhaps he should tell him so. 

SH  
<12:59> Hello, John.

JW  
<13:00> Hi, Sherlock.

<13:04> Did you need something?

SH  
<13:05> No. Just checking in.

JW  
<13:05> Consider me in check :)

Sherlock pockets his phone and resumes his experiment, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

Five hours later, however, Sherlock's mood has shifted considerably. He was looking forward to the case, of course, but the prospect of seeing Victor was suddenly quite daunting. The last time he'd seen him he'd been in such a different state, in such a different _place--_ what if they had nothing in common anymore, nothing to talk about? It's not as if the details of their past could be rehashed in polite company; there was little room for fond nostalgia in the trainwreck that their relationship had been. He supposed that it would be considered appropriate to talk about their families, but for some reason, the idea of discussing John and Rosie with someone like Victor feels like an inexcusable invasion of privacy; a revelation of something far too intimate to share with a casual acquaintance.

And that's all Victor was, now; a casual acquaintance, a ghost from a past life, a chapter from Sherlock's past he's all too happy to have closed. To open it back up out of some misguided desire for civility or common courtesy was nothing short of folly.

He picks up his phone, the details of an imagined excuse manifesting in his fingertips. Just as he's about to type, a message pops up on the screen.

JW  
<18:01> Wish you were here, love.  
<18:01> Miss you like crazy.  
{image.jpg} __

The photograph is a poorly-framed selfie of John and his classmates. A quick analysis of the image provides three irrefutable facts:

1) They'd passed the afternoon at a whiskey distillery, and were predictably knackered.  
2) Two of John's classmates were carrying on an illicit affair, and had been for the past several years.  
3) John used to sleep with the woman he's standing next to.

Something hot and prickly twists in Sherlock's chest.

John had mentioned most of his old Bart's classmates in passing, but Sherlock is fairly certain he's never mentioned the lovely dark-haired woman around whom is arm is casually slung. She's gorgeous in an effortless, unsuspecting way, her body language relaxed and affectionate as she leans against John's side, head tossed back in laughter. She looks carefree and completely at ease.

_What in the the bloody hell._

He grips his mobile with renewed intensity and prepares to fire back a vitriolic analysis of the evidence John has just provided, but at the last moment, he pauses.

Wait.

_Wait._

He knows objectively that John has had a past. And he knows objectively that John is entitled to that past, as much as Sherlock is entitled to his own. 

Sherlock knows that John had a reputation as a player (and hell, he'd maintained that reputation with gusto until the day he and Sherlock finally started sleeping together); was it any wonder that some of his past conquests had been his own classmates? That was hardly a scandal, it was to be expected. It's clear from the picture that John isn't trying to hide anything from Sherlock. If he were, there's no way he'd have been careless enough to send the picture; he's far too aware of Sherlock's capabilities to be so cavalier. He hasn't lied to Sherlock. He hasn't tried to deceive him.

The picture is meant to reassure, not to misguide.

Sherlock sighs. Sentiment is so inconvenient.

SH  
<18:04> Say hello to everyone for me.  
<18:05> Except maybe that woman to your left. Give her a menacing glare on my behalf. 

With that, he makes his way to the bathroom to shower. It was time to prepare for tonight.

He finishes dressing far too early, and finds himself completely at a loss. He's tempted to start a new experiment, but he knows he's dangerously distracted and would probably bollocks it up beyond repair, rendering the results utterly useless. He considers FaceTiming John, but if his deductions are as good as he knows they are, John will be napping off his afternoon buzz back at the Inn by now, and will be grouchy and unpleasant if woken.

Resigned, he pours himself a glass of whiskey and returns to the sitting room before settling in his chair. He makes his way down a rarely-trodden hallway in his mind palace. At the end of the hallway is a doorframe, plastered over with caution tape.

_CRIME SCENE. DO NOT ENTER._

He breaks the seal, and walks inside.

*****

He'd met Victor Trevor over a tray of hors d'oeuvres at his godmother's annual garden birthday party. Well, no, that wasn't exactly true; apparently they'd actually met some twenty-odd years before at the Trevors' holiday home and had spent the weekend playing pirates or some other such childish nonsense, but Sherlock had no real recollection of that. All he remembers is reaching for the last crab croquette only to bump fingers with a man clearly intending to do the same.

He'd had every intention of staking his claim (social niceties were far too boring, and if was going to remain sober for this entire occasion, he'd at least need to find entertainment _somehow_ ), but the moment he looked up, his breath caught in his throat and he found himself somehow speechless.

Victor Trevor was handsome. No, not just handsome, _beautiful,_ in a golden, ethereal way that reminded Sherlock strongly of Jude Law (who to this day remained the only celebrity permitted space in his Mind Palace). He had blond, wavy hair (immaculately styled), piercing blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his tanned nose that gave him a slightly more boyish appearance than his age would suggest. And he was grinning impishly at Sherlock as he effortlessly swooped in on the last croquette, popped it into his mouth, and shrugged.

Sherlock was completely taken aback, and he found himself at a loss for words. Victor just raised his eyebrows. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"I, um... I was going to... eat that." The words felt clumsy on Sherlock's tongue.

"No, you weren't." Victor plucked a flute of champagne off the table and offered it to Sherlock, who dutifully shook his head (God, sobriety was tedious). With another shrug, Victor took the flute for himself and had a sip, keeping his expression politely aloof.

"How do you know I wasn't going to eat it?" Sherlock was admittedly intrigued.

"Look at your plate. You've taken one of each kind of hors d'oeuvre, but you've simply dissected them and pushed them about. The crab croquette was to complete your collection of edible autopsies, but unfortunately for you, they're absolutely exquisite and I couldn't bear to see it meet such an undignified end at the hand of someone who'd scarcely appreciate it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've been watching me?"

Victor laughed, a breezy, bright sound, and Sherlock found himself stepping closer, a moth drawn to a flame. "Can you blame me? The elusive Sherlock Holmes deigns to make an appearance at the annual Farrington Garden Party for the first time in decades, you can scarcely blame me for being a bit curious."

Sherlock is suddenly quite turned off. "You've been coming to these for a while?"

Victor grinned. "Hard to escape, Victoria Farrington is my great-aunt." He held out his hand. "I'm Victor Trevor, by the way."

Sherlock took it, still guarded, but optimistically so. "Sherlock Holmes. Though I suppose you already knew that. Am I really such a source of gossip that they mentioned my absence?"

"Not at all. It's just that I know your brother, Mycroft."

"Oh." Sherlock felt like a dead weight had been dropped upon him. He looked around for an excuse to exit the conversation and, finding none, strongly considered just turning around and walking away.

Victor was quick to gauge Sherlock's reaction, and he corrected himself immediately. "I said I _knew_ him. I didn't say I _liked_ him."

"...Oh?" Well, that was an interesting turnabout indeed.

"He's a meddlesome prat, isn't he? Can't keep his nose out of anything. Particularly if there's power or cake involved."

Sherlock snorted despite himself, and Victor cracked a wide grin, a mutual understanding passing between them in the hazy summer sunshine.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. Sherlock is certain there were festivities late into the night, but the only thing he remembers are Victor's eyes, crinkled with laughter at the corners, his lips, drawn up into a conspiratorial smile, his hands, artistic and expressive, swiping at the air as he gesticulated wildly, detailing yet another humorous anecdote or salacious scandal.

Sherlock was enchanted.

Sherlock was 18 months sober, following a relapse in the autumn of 2004, brought on by a long bout of depression combined with the unravelling of a particularly compelling case he'd been working. His independent detective agency was still fledgling, a stab in the dark at a career path he thought may give him a future, and he was working hard to stay on the straight and narrow, to remain focused and sober.

When he'd exited his fourth round of rehab a year ago, he'd resolved to at least _try._ And so for twelve months, that was all he'd done: work diligently, dress properly, attend the occasional family event, and stay the hell away from substances of any kind.

It was hateful, all of it. He'd had no luck making friends (granted, he'd only made an attempt at that for three weeks before giving up altogether), so his existence when he wasn't immersed in a case or an experiment was dreadfully dull and completely uninspiring.

_"It's okay to want nice things for yourself."_ His therapist had told him that during his exit interview back at the rehab facility. They'd spent months analysing his habits and his tendency to shy away from social interactions and relationships, and his doctor had hypothesized that it was because he refused to believe that he was worthy of something good.

He'd tried to explain to her that he'd never had a friendship that made him feel "good," but she was resolute that social interaction would bring about a new dimension of fulfillment to his life.

And so as the evening wound down and Victor announced that he was taking his leave, Sherlock decided that for once, he wanted something _good._

He'd asked for Victor's number. And Victor had given it to him, with a wink and one more impish grin.

As it turned out, being with Victor was wholly unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced before, a window into a universe heretofore unexplored. Victor was _smart_ \-- though he was nowhere near the level at which Sherlock operated, he was clever and quick-witted, confident and steadfast. He was passionate about politics and devoted to the LGBT rights movement, and he was deeply involved in the passing of several recent landmark pieces of legislation.

All of this Sherlock discovered over dinner on their first date. Victor ate and sipped wine and talked; Sherlock observed and sipped soda water and listened. 

And fell completely head over heels.

As the date drew to a close and they clambered into a cab, Sherlock could feel his pulse picking up. This was the part he didn't particularly enjoy; whatever man he was with would make some veiled excuse to get Sherlock up to his flat, Sherlock would acquiesce (for if he didn't, it was certain the man would never call again), Sherlock would get on his knees and suck his cock, then if he were feeling particularly indulgent, allow his transport permission for a quick release by hand before taking his leave. In the past there were usually drugs or alcohol involved, but tonight he'd had neither, and he wasn't entirely sure how he'd feel about the process without a bit of a stimulant to spurn him on.

But to his surprise, Victor simply announced they'd be making two stops, and when the cab pulled up outside of Sherlock's flat, he gave Sherlock a chaste kiss on the cheek and bid him goodnight, and promised to call him in the morning.

It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever known.

Their relationship had progressed quickly from there. Within the month, Sherlock had moved into Victor's posh flat in Chelsea, a clear step up from the squalid flat he'd been in before (his parents had yet to reinstate his trust fund, and the detective business didn't always produce high dividends). Sherlock spent his days immersed in the Work, and evenings were spent in Victor's company, which quickly expanded to include the company of Victor's friends, all of whom Sherlock found to be shockingly tolerable. They were all well-off but pleasantly bohemian, a lifestyle to which Sherlock himself could imagine subscribing. They accepted Sherlock into their folds with grace and goodwill, and if they found him odd and awkward and off-putting, they kept it well to themselves.

He told Victor about his sobriety before they moved in together, and Victor had been nothing but supportive. He'd cleaned every last drop of alcohol out of his flat, and dutifully catered to Sherlock's needs whenever they were at social gatherings, making sure Sherlock was never without a soda water & lime in his hand, and politely excusing the both of them from the situation if drugs were being imbibed in. He made Sherlock feel cared for without being coddled, nurtured without being smothered. It was a beautiful, delicate balance, and Sherlock could scarcely believe his luck.

The only odd thing was the sex. Or rather, the complete lack thereof.

While it was true that Sherlock had very few actual relationships from which to draw data (and none of them were what one could describe as healthy), he was fairly certain that it was quite odd that he and Victor had been dating for nearly three months, lived together, spent lazy afternoons cuddled up on the couch, held hands in public, slept curled up in the same bed, and yet never exchanged more than a quick peck on the lips in affection.

Though it didn't _bother_ Sherlock, per se (in fact, it was actually blissfully convenient to have one less aspect of his transport that needed tending to), it worried him that perhaps he wasn't giving Victor what he needed. And if that were the case, Victor would undoubtedly leave him, and Sherlock simply could not allow that to happen. He cared for Victor too much. He knew it was a weakness, but somehow in the moment, it had felt very foolishly like strength.

For their three-month anniversary, Victor brought home sushi, and they ate it sprawled out picnic-style in front of the gas fireplace, the lights turned down low and Sherlock's favourite recording of the Bach Partita No. 5 playing on the stereo. They were splitting a bottle of citrus-flavoured Perrier ("Authentic vintage 2005," Victor had joked. "I've heard 2005 was an exquisite year for water"), and Sherlock had actually deigned to eat half a spicy tuna roll and was picking at some edamame while Victor regaled a story about some absurd incident with the coffee maker that had happened at his office that afternoon. 

He couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Victor?"

"Hmm?" Victor paused mid-story, his chopsticks frozen in front of him where he'd been gesturing wildly, attempting to describe the trajectory of the erupting coffee.

"Are you ever going to have sex with me?"

Victor looked completely stunned. He blinked a few times, then lowered his chopsticks slowly to the plate before re-focusing his attention on Sherlock.

"Is that... something that you... want, in our relationship?"

Sherlock was completely flummoxed. He'd never even thought sex was _optional_ in a relationship; what the hell was Victor getting at? "I... I don't know."

"Are you unhappy with the way things are now?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "No. No, actually, it's been... nice. What we have is nice. I just want to make sure that you're alright with it."

Victor took Sherlock's hand in his and gave him a reassuring smile. "Sherlock, I am absolutely content with exactly what we have. There's no pressure for us to change anything here."

Sherlock pursed his lips, the gears in his mind turning over the evidence. It certainly didn't seem that Victor was the type who abstained from sex altogether, yet he didn't seem particularly keen to push things further. "So... so you don't want sex at all?"

Victor gave him a lopsided smile. "From you? No, darling. I'm okay getting it elsewhere. And you needn't worry, there's no emotional connection, it's simply a biological imperative that I can take care of in my own way. You needn't concern yourself with it."

Sherlock felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him. Victor had been taking care of it _elsewhere?_ But _why?_ His brain skittered and faltered and he found himself wholly without words, struck dumb and completely blindsided, blinking stupidly at Victor's placating face.

"But what if... what if I want to try?"

For a moment Sherlock almost thinks he sees panic flicker across Victor's face, but the next moment, it's gone, replaced with affectionate earnestness. "If you think you'd be amenable, we can absolutely try, darling. We could experiment a bit, take it slow. See how you feel about it?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly. Victor's brow creased in concern. "Are you sure? I just don't want you to feel pressured... are you sure this is something you want to do?"

"Yes." The word comes out as barely a whisper, but Sherlock is too floored by what's happening to try and contextualise things any further.

"So maybe... Maybe you can try watching, first? See how you feel?"

Sherlock nodded. That wouldn't be so bad; perhaps a bit of mutual masturbation would be just the spark they needed to get things headed in the right direction, and then they could get past this once and for all.

"Alright. So I have a friend, Joseph... We've known each other a long time, and we hook up occasionally. I could have him join us tomorrow, I'm sure he'd be amenable."

What in the everloving _fuck._

Sherlock opened his mouth. He wanted to protest. He wanted to clarify. He wanted to get things out in the open, to make his intentions clear, but then he's struck by a horrifying thought.

Victor was the first openly gay man he'd ever dated. What if this was simply what things were _like?_ What if Victor had no interest in monogamy, what if he wanted to continue to play the field whilst keeping Sherlock safe in his bed every night? What if this was the only kind of relationship that Victor would agree to?

Sherlock couldn't lose him. He simply couldn't. He was in too deep; too much of his life and sobriety had become irrevocably chained to Victor and his glamourous lifestyle and his shockingly tolerable friends. If Sherlock lost all that, what did he have left? A meagre paycheck from his nascent detective agency, no friends, his hateful family, long bouts of clinical depression, and endless nights of nothing but soda water and nicotine patches for company? Unacceptable.

Sherlock forced himself to smile. "Call him up."

It was every bit as strange as Sherlock had thought it would be. The next night, Joseph arrived at their flat hand-in-hand with Victor, the two of them a bit tipsy, and Victor had given only the briefest of introductions before leading them both into the bedroom.

"Sherlock, darling, why don't you sit here and watch?" He'd guided Sherlock to the chair by the wardrobe in the corner of the room, and pressed a soft peck against his cheek. "You can touch yourself, if you'd like, or join us on the bed in a bit if you think you'd like that better. But I think it might be best if you start over here?" Sherlock just nodded.

And Victor proceeded to fuck Joseph in their bed while Sherlock watched.

It was... there were no words to describe what it was. Watching Victor like that was undeniably arousing, and Joseph thoroughly enjoyed himself as well (Sherlock could tell that none of his moans were theatrically enhanced for Sherlock’s voyeuristic appeasement). By the time that Joseph was arching off the bed and coming with an unearthly wail, Victor's cock buried deep inside of him as he thrust vigorously into his prone body, Sherlock was hard as steel and overwhelmed with the raw feralness of it all.

Joseph slumped bonelessly back to the mattress, and Victor hazarded a glance back over his shoulder in Sherlock's direction, taking in the tent at the front of his trousers with a salacious grin.

"Go on, darling. Touch yourself."

It was as if Sherlock was under some sort of spell, incapable of protest. Helplessly, he fumbled open his flies and took himself in hand and began to stroke in time with Victor's thrusts.

"Oh, God, YES, Sherlock." And with that, Victor turned back to Joseph and continued to thrust into his willing body, finally expelling his release with a ragged shout. 

Sherlock came all over his hand with a grunt.

And for the next two months, that was how he and Victor Trevor had sex. Once or twice a week, Victor would bring home one of his conquests and bed him while Sherlock watched, riveted, bringing himself to completion in a haze of endorphins, lust, shame, and confusion. They rarely spoke about it; Sherlock didn't dare rock the boat, and Victor seemed to be wholly under the impression that they'd reached some sort of perfect balance. At night he'd hold Sherlock close to him, muttering words of endearment under his breath and pressing kisses into his curls, telling him how lucky they were to have found each other.

Sherlock was fairly certain it was love.

And then it all fell apart.

Sherlock was not nosy by nature. He was astutely observant and pathologically curious, which made detecting transgressions or lies almost laughably easy. As such, he never felt compelled to snoop into Victor's business; it wasn't as if they were monogamous (so relationship drama was a moot point), he cared very little for politics aside from supporting Victor in his cause-du-jour at work, and their circle of friends provided no cause for scandal or gossip--not that Sherlock would have been caught up in it if there were.

So it was completely by accident that he happened to glance at the screen of Victor's Blackberry one morning, while Victor was in the shower getting ready for work and Sherlock was preparing some case notes to confront a suspect. The device had been buzzing up a storm for the last five minutes in a most distracting way, and he had every intention of simply turning the notifications off.

But the number on the home screen was familiar.

It was Mycroft's number. And beneath it, a message:

_It will be in your account by tomorrow. And the meeting you requested with Secretary Davies is confirmed for today at 14:00._

Sherlock was floored. He knew that Mycroft and Victor knew each other, of course; Their families had been friends for ages and Victor got on with his own parents much better than Sherlock did with his, so Victor often willingly attended society functions in their company, undoubtedly mingling with Mycroft in the process. Not only that, but Victor worked in politics, so encounters between the two of them were perhaps unavoidable. But Victor had never mentioned working with Mycroft directly, so the contents of the message were perplexing indeed.

Unable to control himself, Sherlock opened the device and began to scroll.

Back through days of conversation.

Weeks.

Months.

And each message was worse than the last.

15 November: _Apologies for the delay with your monthly deposit; there was a mix-up at the bank that's since been rectified._

22 October: _Will you be able to convince him to attend Mummy's birthday this weekend? She'd so love to see him. If you do manage to attend, we should discuss your interest in setting an appointment with Secretary Davies._

8 October: _How has his mood been these past few days? If he keeps up with his usual cycle, he's due for a danger night soon. Any sign of trouble on your end?_

16 September: _He's had a difficult day at work, according to my sources at the Yard. Keep him busy tonight, won't you? I fear he's primed for a relapse if the case doesn't break soon._

2 September: _Keep an eye on him around those friends of yours. I know they were imbibing after the dinner you attended yesterday evening. He can't be around that sort of thing in his current state. If you allow it again, I'll be forced to deduct a significant sum from your deposit._

5 August: _Meet me for a drink at the club this evening. There are a few additional details to discuss._

22 July: _I'm delighted to hear you're amenable to my offer. Please remember the terms and conditions I laid out; there will be no compromising on this issue. But if you agree to fall in line, this will be the most politically and financially beneficial decision you've ever made for your future._

22 July? He and Victor had met at the garden party the very next day.

Sherlock felt impossibly hot and cold all over. He was shaking from a toxic combination of rage and horror that roared through his veins like lava. He knew that he should stop, he should _think,_ he should take a deep breath and process all of this, but sod it to hell, he was going to fucking kill them both with bare hands.

He stalked into the bedroom, where Victor was shrugging on his blazer with an air of effortless ease. Sherlock wound up and threw the Blackberry at him, hitting him square between the shoulder blades.

"Ow!" Victor spun around, his brow furrowed in bewilderment. "Sherlock, what the _hell?"_

"What the hell? You're asking _me_ what the hell? You two-timing, spineless, arrogant _fuckwit!"_ He was spiraling quickly out of control, but he couldn't bring himself to be arsed to care. 

Victor held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Darling, what's this about?"

"Don't you _ever_ call me darling again, you backstabbing traitor. I'm not your _darling."_ Sherlock's lips were curled into a sneer, baring his teeth with near-animalistic intensity. He caught a quick glance of himself in the wardrobe mirror; he was the epitome of fury, rage incarnate, his poised facade shed away like the skin of a snake, revealing the wraith underneath.

Victor paused, taking in the situation, then slowly stooped to pick up his Blackberry. He flicked open the screen, and closed his eyes. His shoulders slumped.

The silence stretched on forever.

Finally, he lifted his head. His voice was soft and meek. Sherlock had never seen him look so defeated.

"You were never supposed to know."

Sherlock threw his head back and cackled, hysteria bubbling up inside of him like a geyser ready to erupt. "I was never supposed to _know?_ So you were just planning to pull one over on the world's only consulting detective, relying on the fact I'd be blinded by your charm... what, _forever?_ Take a big cash payout for a lifetime of babysitting so that all your political ambitions would come to fruition? Were you going to fuck me? Raise a family with me? How far were you willing to go?"

Victor was shaking his head, his eyes filling with tears. "No. No, Sherlock, I wouldn't have done that to you, this was all just supposed to be temporary. Mycroft, he just... he worries, constantly, he told me it was all for your own good."

_"This_ was for my own good?" Sherlock is floored by the audacity of it all. "Befriending me, seducing me, asking me to live with you, having me share my life with you, all so he could keep an eye on me? What sort of pathologically insane person finds that acceptable? And they say _I'm_ the mad one!"

"You don't understand. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was just supposed to be for a little while, until he could be sure you'd fully recovered; he hated that you'd checked yourself out of rehab early the last time, he was positive you were headed for a relapse."

"So you and he were in cahoots this whole time? None of this was real? _None_ of it? I'm just a job to you?!" Sherlock was shaking. He felt vaguely ill, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to lie down or run until his body gave out.

Victor shook his head. "It's not like that. Darling, it's truly not. You're so much more to me than that, I knew it from the moment I met you."

Sherlock was too stunned to reply.

"I didn't expect… I didn’t expect… _you.”_ Victor swallowed, a hateful, wet sound that made Sherlock feel something akin to sympathy, a sensation he quickly tamped down. “I didn’t expect you to be amazing. I knew before I met you that you were brilliant, but I didn't realise that you were fascinating and passionate and honest. I care about you, Sherlock. Deeply. Despite what your brother may want, despite what my role here was supposed to be… I’ve developed feelings for you."

Sherlock's eyes slammed shut, and his throat threatened to close, the reality of it all crashing down around him in a cascade of mortification. "Oh my God. ‘Despite what my brother may want’? Is that why you wouldn't have sex with me?"

Victor averted his eyes. "It wasn't... it wasn't that I didn't _want_ to, Sherlock, God knows you're gorgeous and incredible and sexy as hell, but it wouldn't have been proper. It wouldn't have been right."

Rage blinded Sherlock entirely. None of this encounter seemed real anymore, none of it was processing. His hard drive was malfunctioning, the wires crossed and sparking and threatening to overheat.

"It wouldn't have been PROPER? THAT'S the part you think wouldn't have been proper? What about the part when you held me in your arms every night and told me you'd take care of me, you'd be there for me? THAT felt proper to you?"

"I meant every word of it, Sherlock, I will take care of you, I will be there for you..."

Sherlock laughed again, a hollow, aching sound. "Of course you will. For a price. And how much would it have cost to get you to fuck me, Victor? If I'd kept at it and you couldn't find a way out, would you have just asked Mycroft for a few thousand quid to devirginise his pathetic little brother? Would you have made me _beg?"_

"He told me you were asexual!" The confession burst out of Victor like water breaching a dam; he looked momentarily horrified that he'd said it out loud, but after a brief pause, he allowed himself to continue. "Jesus, Sherlock. Mycroft told me you were asexual, so sex wouldn't be a problem; I could carry on living my life as I saw fit. Then suddenly two months ago you offered it up out of nowhere. What the hell was I supposed to do? Your brother made it clear that if I so much as attempted to make our relationship sexual, he'd kill me. And when I thought you were asexual, that only seemed fair. But I realise now that it was fucked up. It was fucked up, and I'm sorry. What I did to you was terrible. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." 

Sherlock caught another glance of himself in the wardrobe mirror, and realised he was crying openly, in harsh, ugly sobs. His face was twisted and written over with the agony of betrayal, tears staining his cheeks and reddening his eyes. He looked hideous.

Unacceptable. He turned and grabbed the alarm clock off the nightstand and hurled it at the mirror. Victor, apparently under the impression it was intended for him, ducked as it flew past, shattering the mirror into a thousand pieces across the bedroom floor.

Sherlock walked out the door and never went back. He sent two members of his Homeless Network to collect his belongings as soon as he knew Victor had gone. 

That night, he boarded a plane for Miami. A few weeks ago, a case had come across his desk that had caught his interest: A cartel boss was on death row, and his wife was concerned that his conviction was about to be overturned. Sherlock had initially dismissed the case, not wanting to leave London, but suddenly, it was the only thing he could think of to do.

He'd wrapped up the case in a little over three weeks, but he was still in Miami when he overdosed.

Despite being a habitual user for nigh on 13 years at that point, Sherlock had never OD'ed before. He was always fastidious in his calculations, so even on his worst benders, he'd always been fairly certain that his life wasn't at stake. 

As it turned out, until that point he'd simply been very, very lucky.

He was hospitalised in Miami for two weeks following his overdose. When he was finally discharged, he was unsurprised to find two men in dark suits ready to whisk him away on a private government jet. They'd landed in London, and an unmarked car drove him straight to a rehab facility in the Cotswolds.

That was his fifth and final time in rehab. That time it had stuck.

For the most part. 

From there, he'd returned to London and built a life for himself. It wasn't a great life, but it was a tolerable one, for the four years he lived it alone.

And then John Watson had walked into the lab at St. Bart's, and nothing had ever been the same.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock wanders out of the CRIME SCENE in his Mind Palace, closing the door firmly behind him. He knows he has at least a few spare minutes to spend in the John Watson Wing before it’s time to go.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike refuses to admit that it was a lie by omission. When he happened to let it slip an hour into the train ride from London that Moira was attending the reunion, John was... well, what was he, exactly? Upset? No, not upset, perhaps 'blindsided' would be a more suitable term; when Mike had said he was getting 'the old gang' back together for a weekend retreat, for some reason Moira hadn't even crossed John's mind.

Not that she wasn't one of the gang. She was, of course she was, but John had always viewed her differently from the rest of the lot, and not just because they slept together on and off for the duration of their time at Bart's. She was different from the rest of them; a hell of a lot smarter, for one (always at the top of the class, with an effortless kind of ease that caused a fair number of entitled public school boys to exchange ferocious quips behind her back), less prone to intoxicated escapades (not that she didn't indulge in her fair share, but she wasn't known for doing things she'd regret in the morning), and far more driven (she had a 2-year plan, a 5-year plan, and a 10-year plan, whereas the rest of them could barely determine what the'd eat for breakfast the next morning). She was, in every sense, the best of them all.

So when Mike mentioned her among the attendees, John was blindsided. He supposed somewhere subconsciously that he'd just assumed she'd have better things to do on a random weekend than hang out with a bunch of middle-aged, washed up doctors at a country inn in Surrey, whiskey tasting and clay pigeon shooting and talking about their glory days. And yet Mike proffered this information without blinking twice.

"Sorry, mate, didn't realise things were still bad between you two."

"They're not, they're not at all, I just... wasn't expecting to see her, is all."

"Regretting your wardrobe decisions, now? Didn't realise you needed to dress to impress this weekend?"

John rolled his eyes and chucked his balled-up sandwich wrapper at Mike, who gamely batted it out of the way.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a sharp dresser back in the day, so I suppose confirming I'm a lost cause at this age won't exactly come as a shock."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short. Sherlock at least convinced you to abandon your most offensive jumpers."

"He set them on fire, Mike."

"He said it was an experiment. Sounds like an honest mistake to me." Mike grinned at him conspiratorially and reverted his gaze back to his phone, where he was busy finalising the dinner reservations for Saturday night. John sighed and resumed staring out the window, watching the golden light fade to black over the rolling fields.

They arrived at the inn at a little past 8 and checked into their rooms, then joined the few others who'd already arrived for drinks at the pub downstairs.

And it was good to see everyone. It really was. John had been abysmal about keeping in touch post-graduation (for a myriad of reasons that he's not entirely ready to dissect), and it's strangely refreshing to be in the company of people who knew him before any of it-- before the Army, before his injury, before Sherlock, before Mary and the rest of it all. They didn't tiptoe around certain subjects for fear of triggering or offending him, they didn't parse their words when they talked about their careers or their families. They didn't look at John with a faint cloud of _pity_ in their eyes and ask how he was holding up. They simply talked to him as old friends do, sharing stories of past revelries and conquests between sips of whiskey and gulps of lager. John found himself feeling strangely free.

It's well after 10 by the time most of them make their excuses and head up to their rooms. John's still got about half a generous pour of whiskey left in his glass, so he takes a seat by the fire and pulls out his phone.

JW  
<22:33> You still up?

SH  
<22:33> I am. Nearly finished with the composition.

JW  
<22:34> Don't let me distract you, then. Get back to it.

SH  
<22:34> I'm at a bit of an impasse. I need some inspiration.

JW  
<22:35> You could try going for a walk?

SH  
<22:35> Don't be dense, John. It's not a _walking_ piece.

JW  
<22:36> What kind of piece is it, then?

SH  
<22:37> It's a _fucking_ piece. Would've thought that was obvious considering I started writing it as soon as we finished sucking each other off this afternoon.

John raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of whiskey, giving his hand a moment to steady.

JW  
<22:38> Yes, now that you mention it, there was an air of sensuality about it.

SH  
<22:38> Obviously.

JW  
<22:39> So you're in need of a little more inspiration?

SH  
<22:39> Yes.

JW  
<22:40> Do you remember that time two weeks ago, when we'd been trying to squeeze in a quickie right after putting Rosie down, before Mrs. H was due to join us for dinner?

SH  
<22:41> And Rosie wouldn't stop crying? Yes, it was very romantic, though I'm not writing an ode to blue balls, here.

JW  
<22:42> Oh, don't be so contrarian.   
<22:42> And as I recall, your balls ended up being anything but blue.  
<22:42> Remember how I took you on the stairs up to the nursery?   
<22:43> Caught you on your way coming down and spun you around and pushed you onto your knees  
<22:44> Got your trousers pulled down over your magnificent arse   
<22:44> Put two fingers into you right away, you were so wet and open from when i prepped you earlier  
<22:45> before we were so rudely interrupted

SH  
<22:45> yes

JW  
<22:46> and by the time I shoved my cock inside you   
<22:46> you were begging me for it  
<22:46> you were so tight   
<22:46> you felt so hot and wet and raw around my cock

SH  
<22:46> yes  
<22:47> for gods sake john dont stop

JW  
<22:47> and when I started fucking you properly you gripped the stairs so hard you gave yourself splinters  
<22:48> but you didnt ask me to stop  
<22:48> you just begged me for more  
<22:48> and when I finally touched your cock

"John _Hamish_ Watson. In the flesh. In Surry. Never thought I'd see the day."

John startles so badly he drops his phone, which is perhaps mercifully serendipitous considering the contents of the screen. He whirls around to see two chestnut brown eyes beaming down at him, glowing in the firelight, rimmed by miles of wavy dark hair and a thousand-watt grin.

"Moira _Lorraine_ MacDonnell. In the flesh. In Surry. I suppose I could stay the same."

He rises to his feet (mentally assessing the state of his previously-burgeoning erection, and thankfully concluding that it was in an early enough state as not to be obvious to an impartial observer) and strides over to embrace her. She pulls him close and makes that contented humming sound he always recalls her making. She smells the same.

She pulls away first and looks him up and down, a glass of red wine clasped casually in her hand. She purses her lips. "You've aged."

John shrugs. "Better than the alternative."

She throws back her head and laughs. They had always shared a common love of gallows humour, and he's relieved to see she hasn't lost her sensibility.

"Christ, yeah, I'm one to talk. I think I've lived about five thousand lifetimes since we last saw each other."

"Well, if it's any consolation, it doesn't show."

"Ah, don't lie, it doesn't suit you."

"Fine, maybe you've aged a bit, too. But it looks like your five thousand lifetimes were all good ones."

She grins. "Yeah. For the most part, they were."

John gestures to the armchair next to where he'd been sitting. "Care to join me and tell me about a few of them? Not sure we'll be able to get through all five thousand tonight, but we can get a good head start."

"Yes, I'll be the Scheherazade of Surry." She plops down gracefully into the armchair and toes off her shoes, stretching her feet towards the fire. John remembers she was always complaining of cold feet. Low blood pressure, she'd bemoaned.

John settles himself in the chair opposite and takes a sip of whiskey from his tumbler. Their eyes meet in the warmth of the firelight.

"Well first, I'll just get it out there: Andrew and I aren't together anymore. We divorced last year."

"Andrew?" John's already a bit lost. He honestly hadn't kept up with anyone after graduation, so he's looking at a blank slate.

"Andrew Johnson. From our class."

John nearly drops his glass. "Andrew _Johnson?_ You and Andrew Johnson... got married?"

Moira drops her head against the back of the chair and casts her eyes upwards. "Jeeeesus, John, how out of the loop are you?" (He used to love the way 'Jesus' sounded with her accent; _Jayses._ He used to mock her for it all the time.)

John shrugs. "Honestly, after I enlisted I sort of... lost touch with everyone. Nothing personal, it just... happened. And after I got back, reaching out just seemed a bit... insurmountable, you know?" Moira nods and takes a sip of her wine. "Really, the only reason I even got back in touch with Mike is I ran into him on the street. Pure stroke of luck."

"I've got to break it to you, John, there is this newfangled thing called the Internet, you really must check it out sometime. Facebook is truly a revelation."

John's secretly flattered, but he tries not to let it show. Instead, he swills his whiskey and takes a sip. "Silly me, I'd thought that was a young-person thing. Then all of a sudden everyone and their mother had it, and I was the crazy one, keeping a blog like some old luddite."

Moira nearly spits out her wine. _"You've_ got a blog?"

John smiles. It really is refreshing to talk to someone who doesn't already know too much about him. "Mainly for work stuff. You know."

She cocks an eyebrow skeptically. "You blog about being a doctor?"

"I... I actually mainly work as a PI, now."

Moira shakes her head. "Oh my God, the rumours are true. I'd heard something about that a while back, but it seemed too ludicrous to believe."

"You should have known better; it's so mad it must be true."

She laughs again. "I suppose so."

"But seriously, why are we talking about me? You're supposed to be telling me the tales of your five thousand lifetimes. Preferably starting with the one where you marry my old rugby mate."

She sighs and stares into the fire, momentarily seeming like her thoughts are very far away. 

John backpedals. "I mean, only if you want to, of course, I didn't meant to--"

"After you left, Andrew convinced me to join Doctors Without Borders with him. He told me I ought to take a leaf out of your book and shake things up a bit, toss my 5-year plan out the window, and live a little. I took him up on his advice. We worked in Guinea together for three years. Fell in love, moved back, got married. Two kids."

"Jesus. I had no idea."

She gives him a wane smile. "I really thought he was going to try and get in touch with you when we got back. I think... I mean, it wasn't like we were trying to keep things a secret from you, John, and he didn't want to hurt your feelings."

John stares down into his glass, trying to sort out his thoughts. "It's okay. It wasn't... you didn't owe me anything. Either of you. I left, that was my choice. I'd have been happy for you, Mo, really, I would've. I'm sorry it didn't work out." He finally looks up and meets her eyes. She's watching him in that open, honest way she always used to.

"It's alright, really. Shit happens. Turns out we were a bit better suited for one another scrapping by in Africa than we were living the domestic life in the suburbs raising children." She shrugs. "Kids are great, though. They make it all worthwhile. Have you got any?"

John grins. "Yeah, one. Rosie. She's almost two, now. Here, I've got a picture here somewhere..."

He pulls out his phone, swiping past the 38 incoming texts from Sherlock (hell, he was going to be in major trouble for leaving him hanging in the middle of their exchange...but that was a problem for tomorrow, right?) and pulling up a picture of Rosie on the playground he'd taken last week.

"Christ, she's adorable. She looks just like you! And those curls… Is her mum blonde, too?"

John feels a slight chill settle in his chest, where previously there'd just been the tingling warmth from the whiskey. "She... she was, yeah."

Moira pauses, giving him an inquisitive look.

No use beating around the bush, he supposes. "She passed away."

"God, John, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." 

John offers a tight-lipped smile. "It is what it is."

"And sometimes it's shit." Leave it to Moira to put a fine point on it.

For a moment he wonders if she's going to pry, but he's immediately reminded of what he so adored about her; she makes everything feel casual, matter-of-fact, easy; she simply sips her wine and moves on. "Single parenthood is the pits, right? Andrew and I share custody, but still, it's the absolute worst. We're supposed to be all stoic and brave about it, but I have to say, I struggle--and I've only got them every other week."

Well.

It's the moment of truth.

John hadn't broached the subject of Sherlock with any of his former classmates (with the obvious exception of Mike, who works with Sherlock, so there was little about their situation that Mike wasn't already privy to), and he'd been undecided about how much he wanted to offer up. But he supposes there's no use in parsing words; it's not as though he has anything to hide.

"Actually, I... I have a partner now."

"Oh!" Moira seems understandably surprised, and John feels suddenly like he urgently needs to quantify the situation, for some unknown reason.

"We... we knew each other for a while before I met my wife. We were together, but it was complicated, and eventually we, um, we... separated. We managed to stay friends afterwards, to a degree, but after my wife’s passing, I think we... we realised how rare true connections are. We reunited, and we're raising Rosie together."

Moira grins at him, shaking her head. "Well, I'll be damned. John Watson turned out to be a bit of a romantic, after all. Go on, now you've got to tell me about her. Is she a private investigator, too?"

John takes a deep breath. _"He,"_ he pauses, giving the word a moment to sink in, "is the one who got me into the field. We work together."

Moira gives him a long, appraising look. John knows it's not in her nature to gloss over something like that, and sure enough, she doesn't--which, John is surprised to find, feels like a relief; it would have felt infinitely more awkward if she'd just pretended he hadn't just dropped a bit of a bombshell on the conversation.

_"'He'_? That's... new?"

John nods. "Yeah. I... I met him when I came back from Afghanistan. He helped me... he helped me find my way back into civilian life, in a lot of ways. We were flatmates, and friends, and then... more."

Moira smiles. "What's his name?"

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Yup. And he's as mad as his name would suggest."

Moira throws back her head and laughs. "Of course he is, he'd have to be, to hold your attention. Don't think I've forgotten what you're like." She gives him a wink that, coming from anyone else might seem flirtatious, but from her just feels impish and a little sarcastic.

They stay up until the fire has turned to embers and the barkeep gets their attention by slapping the cleaned glasses onto the bartop with a little more force than strictly necessary. They issue their apologies for staying past closing time, and make their way upstairs.

"This is me." Moira stops and rummages for her key.

John thinks about the man he used to be. He'd have made a move on her tonight, that much he's certain about, but that version of himself feels so removed from who he is now that it feels perplexingly foreign.

She's still beautiful. She's still funny and smart and brave and everything he could have ever asked for.

But she's not Sherlock. 

And that suddenly makes everything so simple.

He kisses her cheek and bids her goodnight.

The rest of the weekend is so beautifully easy. He shares laughs and good memories with his classmates and, when the opportunity presents itself, works Sherlock into the conversations about their families without hesitation or embarrassment. Most of them are (predictably) more than a bit surprised that John ended up with a man (considering his womanising ways throughout his days at Bart's), but they're easygoing and accepting and take it all in stride.

John wonders what the hell he was so afraid of for all those years. 

As John boards the train back to London on Sunday afternoon, he feels a sense of peace that he'd never even noticed he was missing before. He's lighter and more at ease.

Not only that, but there was a very particular text conversation he'd left hanging that he'd really like to re-visit in person.

He can't wait to be home.


	5. Chapter 5

“You understand now why discretion is of the utmost importance here? If anyone at the foundation were to know that the funds were missing, it would call into question the integrity of the entire operation. We can’t risk losing our benefactors now, not at so critical a juncture.”

Sherlock steeples his fingertips under his chin and gazes into the dancing flame of the candle on their table, resolutely refusing to let his eyes wander to the (admittedly rather pleasant) angles of Victor’s cheekbones. Age had been kind to him; Sherlock’s initial round of deductions had concluded that Victor was well-off (bespoke suit), successful (he’d taken three other meetings so far that day, despite it being the weekend), still a bit vain (his waistline had increased less than an inch since the last time Sherlock had seen him, and he was using a product for his hair that even Sherlock himself had dismissed as overpriced), and he was absolutely, resolutely sincere in his request for Sherlock’s help. 

Sherlock gathers his thoughts and formulates a diplomatic response. “I’ll need to review your records tonight. If your suspicions are correct, we may be able to put together a sting on fairly short notice; hopefully before you return to Canada. I’m optimistic we’ll have the intel required in time, provided I’m able to access the restricted files from the server. If they’re running the OS you say they are, it should be simple enough.”

Victor nods earnestly. “Of course. I have the necessary records in my room.”

Victor ushers Sherlock briskly to his room, conveniently located on the floor below. Sherlock dives into the paperwork without hesitation, and Victor talks him through the more nuanced records with practiced urgency.

It’s near 3am by the time Sherlock has sifted through the last of the files. The case is complex, but a sting would certainly accelerate the investigation to adhere to Victor’s sensitive timeline. 

He sits upright from where he’d been hunched on the sofa, the files strewn across the coffee table, and cracks his neck. He hears Victor shift beside him.

“Well?”

“It’s as I suspected. And I think a sting is the way to go. I should be able to access the server by tomorrow afternoon-- I have a friend who will be able to help us out on that front.” He doesn’t mention that his ‘friend’ is a member of his Homeless Network, who hacks at the local public library for a fee.

He looks up to see Victor beaming at him, eyes bright with hope. “God, I knew I wouldn’t regret calling you. You’re a lifesaver, you know that?”

Sherlock gives him the hint of a smile in return. “Happy to help out an old friend.”

Victor’s expression turns suddenly serious. “Is that… do you think that’s possible? Sherlock, Christ, there’s so much I want to say, so much I’ve wanted to tell you, but I could never find the courage, could never find the words--”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “It’s in the past, Victor.”

Victor meets his eyes unwaveringly. 

It’s only then that Sherlock realises that Victor is sitting close.

Very close.

And he smells of teakwood aftershave and vetiver oil and just a hint of something faintly smoky, and the scent brings back a thousand heady memories of nights tangled together in his luxurious bedsheets, breathing one another in, Sherlock so overwhelmed with awe and desire at the sheer magnitude of his _want_ that it had seemed he would all but drown in it.

And then, before he has time to process, Victor has leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly against his.

For a moment, Sherlock melts. The sensation of Victor’s lips is sensual and divine, Victor’s fingers gently cupping Sherlock’s chin to deepen the kiss. This is everything-- _everything--_ that Sherlock had been missing, all those years ago. Every confusing desire, every confounding craving, manifested here in this moment, laid bare for Sherlock at last. His for the taking, if he wanted.

_If he wanted?_

Sherlock jerks back as though he’s been delivered an electric shock. Victor responds quickly in kind.

“I’m… sorry. God, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. It’s the stress, I swear… seeing you here tonight, watching your mind at work, it… may have stirred up some lingering feelings. I’m sorry if my advances were unwanted.” He eyes are bright and earnest.

Sherlock is gobsmacked, his brain frantically rattling as it struggles to come back online. “You’re married.”

Victor meets his eyes. “We have an open relationship.”

“I don’t.”

Victor’s eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline. “Oh! God, I’m so sorry, Mycroft didn’t say… Jesus, Sherlock, I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?” Victor’s face is a mask of mortification, a raging blush darkening his high cheekbones in the dim hotel room light.

Sherlock wills himself to calm down. His heart feels as though it’s about to beat out of his chest. It’s been so long since he’d kissed anyone besides John, and Victor’s lips had felt just as he imagined them; plush and moist and imbibed with a sensuality that reignited the familiar pulse of _want_ he dimly recalls from all those years ago.

Flustered, he realises he’s yet to respond, and he prays that the pause isn’t as long as it’s felt in his head. “It’s my fault as well, I should have said… I sometimes forget that not everyone shares in my passion for perception.”

A small smile appears on Victor’s face, and he shakes his head fondly. “You and your perception. Alright, then, I have to ask… how should I have known?”

It’s exactly what Sherlock needs; this, he can do; it’s a soothing, practiced effort. He takes a steadying breath, stilling his mind and aligning his thoughts. He begins.

“First, the state of my coat when I arrived. When you knew me, I was fastidious about my appearance, but my coat is showing minor signs of neglect.”

“Such as?”

“A few errant hairs that don’t belong to me. On the shoulder; not a pet, then, probably human, but too fine to be from an adult. Blonde; that’s an interesting turn-up, there. You know everyone in my family is dark-haired, so chances are, the child is not biologically mine. But the traces of pureed pea and rice cereal on the lapel of my coat indicate I participated in a feeding at one time in the recent past. I’m not known for outward displays of benevolence towards those to whom I have little connection; therefore, I presumably consider the child close kin, despite our lack of genetic relation.”

Victor nods. “Go on, then.”

“Secondly, my scarf. It’s a few years old and a colour that I’d never have chosen for myself, yet I’m wearing it regardless. A gift, then, most likely-- but knowing me, as you do, you’re well aware that I’d never wear an item of clothing simply to mollify the donor of the item, so there must be more to it than that; perhaps sentiment, or a sincere desire to appease them.”

“I see. And?”

“And most importantly: My necklace.”

“Your necklace?” Victor peers intently at Sherlock’s neck, and seems to take in the presence of the chain for the first time.

“You certainly know I’m not one for jewellery; we actually had discussions about it multiple times during our relationship. And yet here I am, wearing a necklace; not particularly obvious to the neglectful eye, but noticeable enough to anyone who may care to look. The only part that’s visible is a ball chain; not exactly a fashionable choice, so it’s not worn for vanity, then. The angle at which it hangs suggests that there’s something strung to it that’s worn beneath my clothes, weighing it down. Could be any number of things, but in the absence of any religious background on my part, the most common conclusion would be military identification tags. Considering that neither I nor anyone in my family has a history of service, it’s probable that the tags belong to someone to whom I’m not related. If I’ve agreed to wear a piece of jewellery with a name engraved in it that is not my own, it stands to reason that the owner of said piece would be an intimate partner.”

Victor blinks a few times, then shakes his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “So I’ve been told.”

Victor purses his lips and hesitates. Sherlock knows he’s about to say something _sentimental,_ which at this moment is about the last thing that Sherlock wants to hear, so he attempts to cut him off before Victor can say anything cringingly personal.

“His name is John.” It’s the wrong choice for what to say. Victor takes it in stride, but the shape of John’s name on his own traitorous lips ushers in a fresh wave of shame. God, how could he have been so _blind,_ following Victor unquestioningly back to his hotel room, refusing to second-guess his motives, losing himself in the case and failing to pick up on all the signs. Now that he sees them, they’re all there; a near-empty bottle of red wine on the coffee table beside their two glasses (he’d barely registered sipping it as he’d worked through the files), the fire in the fashionable gas fireplace in the corner, and the unmistakable taste of lip balm, indicating Victor had perhaps applied some recently in anticipation of making his move--and somehow, Sherlock had missed it all. 

And now Sherlock’s gone and let Victor kiss him. He’s betrayed John’s trust. He’s been stupid, naive, oblivious and foolish. This was wrong, wrong, _wrong,_ he wants John, only John… He is John’s, wholly, purely, for now and for always… self-hatred wells up in his throat, strong and sharp. He needs to leave immediately.

“I have to go.” He stands, bumping into the coffee table in his haste, nearly upsetting their wine glasses, which Victor manages to right and the last second.

Victor reaches out to place a placating hand on Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock snatches it away. “Sherlock, please. I am truly sorry. I was out of line, and for that, I apologise; if I’d have known, I promise I would have respected your boundaries. But I do need your help. The crisis at the foundation is bigger than this, bigger than both of us-- please don’t let my poor judgement compromise that.”

Sherlock chews his lip anxiously. He feels perilously close to a tailspin; all his instincts are simply shouting at him to get OUT OUT OUT. He finally manages to formulate a response. “I’ll have to ask John. He’s my--we work together. On cases, we work together. But he’s… he’s not here right now. I have to go.”

It makes no sense, he realises this of course, but he can’t bring himself to clarify. He simply turns and makes his escape as quickly as possible.

He doesn’t remember the cab ride back to the flat. He doesn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa. 

He wakes to rays of sunlight spilling through the sitting room window. His neck is sore and he feels groggy and strange. This couldn't be real. It couldn't be. It was a nightmare, surely, the malevolent conjuring of a mind restless in John's absence, rattled by Victor's intrusion into their domestic bliss, grasping at latent memories and whipping them into a new and terrifying specter of days past.

He sits up from where he'd fallen asleep on the sofa, blinking blearily.

He's still wearing his suit.

It had been real.

All of it.

He leaps to his feet, suddenly compelled with the urge to shower, _urgently._ He strips off his clothes and turns the water to scalding, and thrusts himself underneath.

It doesn't help. He scrubs and scrubs until his hands are raw and wrinkled with the effort, the smell of the sandalwood soap (previously so soothing, conjuring memories of John giving him aftercare following their sessions of _unwinding)_ oppressive and cloying in the steam. His arms itch like crazy.

He lets out a strangled cry of frustration and pulls his hair, the pain searing through his sensitive roots as he falls to his knees in the tub, doubling over, letting the water pound his back as he struggles to centre himself.

He's not sure how long he stays there, but when his brain comes back online, the water's cold and he's shaking. He turns it off and pulls himself to his feet, legs unsteady and eyes unseeing as he grasps for a towel.

He dries himself, the movements choreographed and automatic. He wanders back into the bedroom and pulls on his pajama bottoms and his softest grey t-shirt.

He lies down on the bed. 

An unusual place to think, but he can't bear the sofa.

He has to think.

He doesn't want to.

But he has to.

He doesn't remember retreating into his Mind Palace, but the next thing he knows, John's keys are turning the lock in the front door. He scrambles to his feet, disorientated, and has to pause for a moment before collecting his bearings and striding down the hall.

John is home. That means everything will be alright.

This will all be alright.

"Sherlock?" John is shutting the front door behind him and peering into the sitting room as he deposits his bag by the door.

"John." John turns to face him. Sherlock feels as though he's been punched in the stomach.

Sherlock doesn't give himself time to think. Instead, he _attacks,_ kissing John so fiercely he nearly loses his balance in a clash of teeth and tongue and lips.

"Christ, Sherlock, missed you too..." he manages to gasp out as Sherlock sinks his teeth into the flesh at the base of his shoulder. "Oh, _fuck--"_

_"Yes,"_ Sherlock agrees vehemently, grabbing John by the coat sleeve and hauling him bodily back down the hallway to the bedroom. As soon as they cross the threshold, Sherlock strips, then crawls onto the bed, throwing an exasperated glance over his shoulder when he senses John hesitating.

"John, fuck me, NOW."

It's as though John's brain had jump-started; the next moment he's pulling off layers of clothes and scrambling onto the bed as well, attempting to pull Sherlock into another kiss.

Sherlock pulls away. "No more kissing. Want you inside me."

"Christ, alright, Sherlock, let me grab the lube. Here, lie down on your back and I'll suck you off a bit--"

"NO!"

His response seems to startle them both, and he scrambles to over-correct. 

"No, I mean, I want... want it rough. Please. Like this." He gets onto his hands and knees. "Skip the prep."

John licks his lips. Sherlock can see his pupils dilating (he wants this, clearly he wants this), but typical John, he _refuses_ to just let himself go.

"Sherlock, if we do that, that means we're having a session here. Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

John nods slowly. "Alright. But please, in the future, you need to communicate that to me. Level 2 alright?"

John's asking him to pick a level-- ever since they had a negotiation about the intensity of their sessions a few weeks ago, John's been asking Sherlock to categorise their sessions into levels, each with a corresponding amount of aftercare. 2 is firmly mid-range.

Not ideal, but he doesn't want to deal with the amount of post-coital coddling a Level 3 session would entail, so he agrees.

"Yes, fine, just... please."

He lowers himself onto his forearms.

John presses into him with a single lubed digit. Sherlock loves being taken unprepared, but John (ever the doctor) is far too familiar with the medical risks involved to agree to that on a regular basis. Instead, they've compromised on minimal prep for the times Sherlock wants it to be rough.

John is quick but thorough. He thrusts his finger in and out a few times, distributing the lube generously but without providing much of a stretch, then withdraws and returns with two digits this time. They're slippery with lube, which he applies liberally to Sherlock's rim before pressing inside him and scissoring his fingers ever so slightly, providing a mild stretch.

Sherlock grits his teeth. This is all so tedious.

At long last, John's fingers are gone and he's pressing his cock inside. Sherlock is beautifully under-prepared; there's a gorgeous, blooming burning sensation as John slides home, and Sherlock cries out loudly enough to make John freeze.

"Alright?"

"YES. Move. Now."

And John does.

The sensation is so overwhelming, Sherlock can't breathe. Finally, it's quiet.

Finally.

_Finally._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, all the drama and sexy bits will play out soon! I also realised I am terrible at counting and this actually has 8 chapters, not 7...


	6. Chapter 6

John makes tea.

He doesn’t allow himself to think. He wills his mind to remain blank and placid. It strangely reminds him of the way he’d feel when they were in transit out on the road back in Afghanistan. If he thought about the risks, the possibility of ambush, an IED, the odds that they wouldn’t make it to their destination unscathed, he’d have spent every moment in a state of suppressed panic. 

So instead, he trained himself to go blank.

He goes through the motions of making tea without thought or hesitation. He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the words that Sherlock has just uttered, or the way that his half-hard cock has yet to come to terms with the fact that their encounter has been abruptly aborted. 

He makes tea, and he breathes.

By the time he makes his way into the sitting room, Sherlock is positioned in his chair. He’s clothed again, in pajamas and his oldest dressing gown, faded and blue. He’s chewing his lip with voracious intensity. He looks impossibly young.

John hands him a cup, and takes his seat across from him.

“Tell me what happened.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. John steels himself.

“Victor texted me last night and asked for my assistance with a case. Someone is embezzling funds at the foundation he runs, and he needed help from a discrete source. I agreed. We met at the Shoreditch House bar and he ran through the details. I needed to review some of his files. He told me they were in his room.”

John can feel his heart rate increasing, a sensation of rage blooming from his chest to his head and coursing through his veins, hot and sharp. He can picture this all so clearly; the masterful calculation of the situation on Victor’s part, and Sherlock’s willing participation. He wills himself to stay calm.

“I finished reviewing the files, and then he leaned over and kissed me.” Sherlock’s voice breaks, and for one horrifying moment, John thinks he may cry, but he quickly collects himself and looks John squarely in the eye. “I pulled away the moment I realised what was happening. I told him about you and about us and that I was faithful to you. And then I left.”

John blinks.

“You… left?”

“Yes.”

“He leaned over and kissed you, you rebuffed him, and then you left?”

When Sherlock replies, it’s barely a whisper. “Yes.”

John is completely flummoxed. When Sherlock had said he’d kissed Victor, John had imagined a momentary lapse in judgement on his part, an indiscretion that was uncalculated but sincere. But this was… well, this was _nothing._

So why the hell was Sherlock falling apart at the seams? Relief is washing over John in reassuring waves, but he still can’t make sense of Sherlock’s overreaction to this entire scenario. For God’s sake, he’d tried to choke himself out while John was fucking him as some type of penance for… for what, precisely?

John puts down his mug of tea and leans forward to take Sherlock’s hand in his own. Sherlock averts his eyes. He’s blinking rapidly, and John can see that he still appears to be on the verge of tears.

“Sherlock… that’s fine.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up, and he glares at John uncomprehendingly. “Fine? It’s not fine! None of it was fine!”

John shakes his head and scrambles to clarify. “No, I don’t mean it’s fine for someone to kiss you without your consent. What I mean is, the way you handled the situation; that’s fine. You did the right thing, Sherlock.”

“But I missed all the signs! I should have known what he was planning, should have anticipated--”

“No. No, Sherlock, I am not letting you blame this on yourself. He contacted you for professional reasons, and you took him at his word.” John struggles to form the next sentence, as a different scenario suddenly plays out in his mind. “Did he… did he stop when you told him to? He didn’t try and force you, did he?”

“No. No, John, nothing like that. He apologised.”

John clasps Sherlock’s had more tightly in his own, and leans in to hold Sherlock’s gaze. “Alright. Alright, then. That’s… that’s good. So we’re fine, Sherlock. Everything is fine.” He gives him his most reassuring smile.

Sherlock worries his lip absentmindedly between his teeth. 

A different concern manifests itself in John’s mind, nebulous and vague. He struggles momentarily to quantify it before proceeding.

“Sherlock, did you think I’d be angry at you for what happened?”

Sherlock blinks at him. “I… perhaps?”

A deep feeling of dread settles into John’s gut, but he forces himself to continue. “Did you think I would… did you think I would want to _punish_ you for something like that?” The thought is so abhorrent to John that he can barely make himself utter it. The memory of Sherlock desperately pressing his throat into John’s clenching palm plays out in violent technicolor in his mind, and he swallows down a wave of nausea.

This was his worst fear; the manifestation of something dark and sinister as a result of their explorations in _power dynamics._ This was the exact thing that John worked so hard to avoid. If Sherlock thought that John would punish him for this, then things were well and truly out of John’s control. He’d have to end that aspect of their relationship immediately. He braces himself for Sherlock’s response.

“I didn’t think you’d want to _punish_ me, exactly. But it did make me… it made want….” He trails off, unable to complete his thought. John rubs his thumbs over the back of Sherlock’s hand reassuringly.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. You can tell me.”

The silence stretches on for an eternity. Finally, Sherlock speaks.

“Do you remember when we went to Brighton and ran into Seb?”

John’s blindsided by the change in subject, but he simply nods reassuringly.

“And after that, when we got back to the hotel, I told you that I needed to _unwind.”_

John nods again. “Yes, I remember.”

“And do you remember the case we worked recently, at the gentleman’s club I used to belong to?”

Another nod.

“And you remember how incredible our session was after we wrapped the case?”

John grins despite himself. He remembers. And they’ve got a lockbox full of Polaroids, should he wish to refresh his memory.

“I’ve… I’ve realised something about myself, John. I’ve been open with you about… about my past. About my sexual history, about my drug use, about all of it. But I realise now that you’re in my life, when I’m confronted with old demons, I rely… I rely on you to help me exorcise them.”

John tips his head, not quite following. Sherlock soldiers on.

“When I’m reminded of who I was, of the things I did, of the things… the things I let people do to me… I want to purge myself of those memories. I want you to overwrite every one of those files on my hard drive. And I’m only able to do that when I’m surrendering to you.”

John lets out a long, slow breath, finally releasing Sherlock’s hand and sitting back in his chair. His thoughts are running a million miles a minute, and he’s struggling to reconcile this new information with everything he’s learned about negotiating _power dynamics_ up until this point. They’re treading on thin ice, here.

“So… _unwinding_ helps you feel like you’re moving on from the past?”

“Sometimes, yes. When you claim me like you do during our sessions and make me submit to you, I feel… freed. From all of it. It’s like… a form of absolution.”

John purses his lips. “That’s not… that’s not necessarily a bad thing, Sherlock, but I think we’re toeing at the edge of something here that makes me nervous. When I… when I gave you my tags, I told you that it wasn’t a sign of ownership, it wasn’t a symbol of a more permanent power exchange, I was giving them to you merely as a symbol of trust. Do you still feel that way?”

“Of course.”

“So you don’t… your concern was not that my ownership of you was violated by Victor’s actions?”

Sherlock looks flabbergasted. “No, of course not, John. It simply exacerbated the urge to exorcise that particular demon. But you weren’t here when I got home, and I think I… spiralled a bit. The past and the present… got blurry. It stirred up old feelings, old desires. I didn’t like them.”

John sits in silence for a moment, processing. It’s no small relief that at the very least, things in their power exchange hadn’t gone as disastrously off-track as he’d initially feared. Sherlock’s motivations, while news to John, weren’t in the category of unhealthy--they were simply different than what John had previously understood them to be.

“Alright. Alright, this is… okay. But I am concerned, Sherlock.”

“You needn’t be, for my sake.”

“Not for your sake, for mine.” John takes a steadying breath. “As I’m sure you’ve… observed, over the years, I can be… I’m a jealous man. I can be possessive and territorial. It’s a trait that I’ve had for a very, very long time. And I’ve been working hard to liberate myself from it.”

Sherlock nods intently.

John continues, pausing only momentarily for thought. “I need you to know, first and foremost, that I accept your past, no questions asked. I will never hold your past actions against you, and I will never ask you to atone for them. Your past is yours and yours alone. So in that vein, I’m concerned about the consequences of linking memories of your past sexual partners and my domination of you. While it may be liberating for you, I’m afraid that in me, it will form a correlation between territorial behaviour and sexual pleasure. And I don’t want to do that.” 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. After a beat, he speaks.

“What if you only did it if I asked you to?”

John furrows his brow. Sherlock continues.

“What if… when I’m confronted with something or someone from my past that makes me feel as though I need to have a session to cope with it, you defer to me to request the session?”

John nods thoughtfully. “Like in Brighton?”

“Exactly. I know it’s our default state that you control our sessions, and that’s the way I prefer it. But perhaps in situations like this, my initiative in requesting the session would be the safeguard that we need to prevent you from experiencing the correlation.”

John turns the scenario over in his mind, mulling it over carefully. It was true, the time in Brighton that they’d encountered Sherlock’s ex and Sherlock had subsequently requested a session, John had been able to separate the feelings of jealousy and protectiveness he’d had during their encounter with Seb from the feelings he’d experienced while he was dominating Sherlock; it didn’t seem that his jealous nature had influenced ability to control himself during the session. Though he hadn’t recognised it at the time, the fact he’d been able to make that distinction was an indication that they were keeping things on the right track.

Finally, he nods. “Alright, then. I think that will work.”

Sherlock breaks into a dazzling grin. “Excellent.” He abruptly tips forward off his chair and onto his knees, then proceeds to stare up at John expectantly.

“I… oh! Um, you want… you want to start now?”

“Obviously. What the hell else would I be doing down here?” His tone is sharp and sarcastic; it’s the first time Sherlock has sounded like himself since John walked through the door what felt like a lifetime ago.

John hesitates. He’s still feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything they just hashed out.

"Sherlock, I... I don't think we should do this tonight."

"Don’t you want to?"

John shakes his head. "Of course I do. But things were pretty charged between us for a second there. I need some time. How about I make dinner and take you to bed and make love to you properly, yeah? Come on." John stands and extends a hand.

Sherlock looks at it as though John had spat in it prior to offering it to him.

"We've made love plenty lately. I want to _unwind."_ He glares up at John with renewed intensity.

It’s only now that John is beginning to see how much Sherlock truly _needs_ this sometimes. And after what had happened to him last night, his sense of urgency is breathtaking.

"Sherlock, while... while I know _unwinding_ is healthy for us, I don't think we should be engaging in escapism right now."

Sherlock rises to his feet, fury written across his face, and before John knows it, Sherlock is towering over him, lips pulled back in a sneer. _"Escapism?_ That's bullshit and you know it. Who I am when I'm submitting to you? That is the purest, most basic essence of my being. And I know for a fact that who you are when you're dominating me is the most undiluted version of yourself. You can yap at me all day about _'making love'_ and the emotional value of passionate sex, but for fuck's sake, John. I know you. And you know me. Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is."

John blinks.

Sherlock is right.

Goddamn it, he's always right.

He pulls himself up to his full height, throwing his shoulders back, assuming his Captain voice. "Strip. Now. Leave your clothes on your chair, no need to fold them."

Sherlock complies so quickly it’s almost comical. John observes neutrally as he shucks his dressing gown and pajamas and tosses them unceremoniously into the chair behind him. Even this simple act is clearly having its intended effect; Sherlock is already growing hard, his hands trembling slightly in anticipation as he performs his demanded task. Once finished, he turns and faces John with a look of unbridled anticipation.

John smiles warmly at him. “Lovely, sweetheart. I see you’re going to be good for me tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” He walks forward and places a deep kiss on Sherlock’s lips, cupping his pale face in his hands. Sherlock opens his mouth to allow John entrance, and John presses his tongue inside in a soft, slow side.

He kisses Sherlock for what feels like an eternity, never taking it further to sexualise the act. Instead, he simply makes Sherlock _anticipate,_ and it’s not long before Sherlock is panting into his mouth, a high whine issuing from the back of his needy throat.

Finally, John pulls away. He turns and grabs the Union Jack pillow from its place on his chair, and puts it on the ground at his feet.

“Kneel.”

Sherlock drops so fast it's as though his legs have been kicked out from under him.

“Stay.” John makes his way briskly down the hallway to their bedroom, where he grabs one of the leather belts from the closet that they’ve long since relegated to this purpose. He carries it back to the sitting room, whereupon Sherlock’s eyes light up as though it’s Christmas-- or at the very least, a locked-room double-murder.

Sherlock loves this. John forgets to remind himself of that sometimes; that _Sherlock_ loves this as much as he does. What they do isn’t for one or the other of them, it’s for them both, something sacred and beautiful that they’ve wrought together and that has made them stronger than they’d ever been before. It’s a privilege beyond measure.

He takes a deep breath and approaches Sherlock. 

“Open.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, and John places the leather belt between his teeth. Sherlock closes his eyes and issues a soft sigh, his face the picture of peace, as though he’s receiving a holy communion. John secures the belt behind his head and steps back.

“Hands in your lap. Lovely. Stay.”

And with that, John turns and picks up his luggage from where it had been abandoned by the front door the moment Sherlock had jumped him, and makes his way down the hall to unpack.

He’s never tried this technique before, but he’d read it as a suggestion on one of the _power dynamics_ message boards he frequents. The initial poster had inquired about what to do when he’d arrive home from work and his Sub wanted to begin a scene immediately, but he needed time to decompress first. The responder had suggested putting the Sub in a position of supplication and making them wait in anticipation until the Dom was ready to begin the scene; that way, the Sub was allowed to enter the headspace they desired immediately, and the Dom was given the time required to collect their thoughts before beginning the scene. 

John had mentally bookmarked that suggestion. Although he and Sherlock were usually on the same page when it came to starting their sessions, he knew that Sherlock often enjoyed being ignored while John left him tied up and debauched in between rounds, and he wondered if perhaps Sherlock may enjoy some time like this before they started. He’d never had the opportunity to test this hypothesis, but tonight seemed like the perfect chance. He could take some time to unpack, eat, and sort out his thoughts about the negotiation they’d just had. If it turned out he wasn’t in the mood for anything intense, he could come up with something for their session that would satiate Sherlock but would keep things short and sweet. Or if, once he’d had time to decompress, it turned out he was in the mood for something more intense; well, he’d have plenty of time to construct a game plan before they embarked.

It’s the better part of an hour before he’s unpacked and tucked into some leftovers he found in the back corner of the fridge (which he’s fairly certain were not contaminated by _whatever_ experiment Sherlock had left fermenting in the crisper). It takes every last ounce of his willpower not to throw a glance into the sitting room to see how Sherlock’s getting on, but he knows it’s essential he remains completely impartial to keep the upper hand. He doesn’t hear any signs of movement, so he can be fairly certain that Sherlock is complying willingly.

Eventually, he starts to feel like he’s back on solid ground. While the entire fiasco with Sherlock’s confession had felt dizzying and alarming at the time, John is actually quite pleased with how they’d managed to navigate the whole situation. The only thing that’s left to do now is relax into their routine, and allow himself to unwind.

He stands up from the table and stretches, then chucks the empty carryout containers in the bin. He’s half-hard already (he’d been absentmindedly concocting a few scenarios even before he’d finished his meal), and he feels calm. Confident. Prepared. He’s surprised to find he actually doesn’t want a short session tonight; he wants something intense, something new, something _consuming._ He hopes that Sherlock is on the same page.

He turns and walks into the sitting room, letting his eyes fall to Sherlock for the first time since he’d left him there, gagged in silent supplication.

The sight takes his breath away.

Sherlock is still in the same position John left him in; his back ramrod straight, his palms resting on his thighs, his teeth clenched around the unforgiving leather strap between them. But his demeanor has changed entirely.

He looks _destroyed._

His eyes have taken on the wide, glassy appearance they assume whenever Sherlock enters his submissive headspace. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his body from his brow down to his torso, which is heaving in ragged, desperate breaths. If John didn’t know better, he’d think Sherlock was in agony.

But then there’s his cock.

His cock is harder than John thinks he’s even seen it. It’s so red it’s nearly purple, and it’s leaking copiously, jutting out from Sherlock’s lap to pulse angrily against his thigh. The sensitive vein that runs up it is visibly throbbing, and his balls are pulled tight to his body, as though he’s primed for release. He looks ready to go off in a slight breeze, and John’s not so much as looked at him for over an hour.

 _Jesus,_ John thinks to himself. That had worked quite the charm. He feels his own cock throb in sympathy, and he palms himself lightly through his trousers, the anticipation of what they’re about to do singing through his veins, igniting all of his senses.

He walks until he’s standing inches away from where Sherlock is knelt. Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes, and lets out a long, low whine.

“Well then, sweetheart. Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's about damn time. Promise to make the next bit extra filthy as penance!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY it’s time for the naughty bits! Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> Because this fic has been fairly tame up until this point, I feel compelled to urge you to re-read and heed the tags. Although everything that follows is safe, sane, and explicitly consented to by both parties, this chapter contains overt D/S dynamics and graphic depictions of rough sex. If that doesn’t float your boat, you can safely skip to Chapter 8, which will just be fluff and aftercare and all-around good times.

John is here.

He’s finally returned.

Sherlock feels like he can’t breathe, he’s so consumed with desire. He’s registering everything through the thick haze that settles over his brain every time he and John _unwind,_ and tonight it’s been exceptionally potent. He wants to beg, he wants to surrender, he wants John to fuck him and claim him and make him forget everything in this godforsaken world except how damn good it feels to be together. 

He’s desperate.

He feels a whine escaping from the back of his throat, and John is smiling down at him benevolently. Surely, John will understand what he needs. Surely. Surely.

“Alright, love. Rules first: I need you to tell me what Level you want tonight. Just hold up your fingers and show me. Do you still want a 2?”

Sherlock shakes his head vehemently and holds up three fingers with an air of defiance. He wants everything John can dish out, and now that he’s had time to reconsider, some intensive aftercare might be lovely tonight. He knows how much John adores giving it to him.

“Okay, 3 it is. While you’re gagged, snap once if you want to pause, twice if you want me to ungag you, and three times if you want to end the session altogether. Understood?”

Sherlock nods.

“Good. Now, listen to me carefully. _You are not to come without permission tonight._ Your pleasure is mine and mine alone. If you come without permission, I’m going to be very unhappy with you, and our session will end immediately. That would be disappointing, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock nods again.

“Excellent. I’m glad you understand.” He leans forward to grasp the loose end of the belt from where it’s fastened at the back of Sherlock’s head. “Come with me, now. Bedroom.”

Sherlock makes to stand, but before he can process anything, he’s being yanked back to the ground, John’s hand firm around the end of the belt. “Did I say you could stand? Hands and knees now.”

Sherlock’s brain short-circuits.

How did John know? How _could_ he have known?

A few weeks ago, they’d started a session in a cab on their way home from a case. John had tied Sherlock’s hands together and led him from the cab to their flat like he was on a leash, before tying him up to the desk in the sitting room and having his way with him. As John had led him up the stairs, Sherlock had been suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to go to his knees and crawl.

He’d fought the urge at the time; they were on the stairs (which would have made maneuvering difficult), he was wearing his most elegant dress (which afforded him a restricted range of motion) and silk stockings (which undoubtedly would have snagged on the rough wood of the staircase). Plus, he couldn’t deduce in the moment whether it was something John would like, or if it would perhaps be a bit too strange, putting the session to a halt. So he’d remained on his feet and pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

And yet here’s John, his brilliant conductor of light, reading him like an open book and bringing his deepest desires into the open, theirs to claim together. He is… he is… everything. _Everything._

He doesn’t immediately process that a look of concern has clouded John’s face, and that he’s peering down at him, his voice laced with trepidation. “Alright? You don’t have to, you can--”

Fuck, John thinks he’s not alright with this? John thinks he’s gone too far. Of course he thinks that, Sherlock is staring up at him blankly, lost in his own thoughts, instead of obeying him! Sherlock is going to mess this up for them both if he doesn’t set himself right.

He snaps himself out of his lust-induced stupor and scrambles onto his hands and knees, looking up at John and nodding vehemently, willing John to understand that _yes, yes, he wants this, he wants this more than he’ll ever be able to express, he wants this, please, he wants this…_

John breaks into a relieved smile, then his face transforms yet again back into Captain mode.

“Lovely. Bedroom. Now.” He gives the belt a firm tug and Sherlock begins to crawl across the floor.

It’s too much. The sensation of submission is too heady, too potent. He hadn’t realised how turned on he’d become simply waiting for the session to start, but now that he’s in motion, he becomes agonisingly aware of the state of his cock. It’s swaying heavily between his legs, so hard he could cut glass, and he can feel himself pulsing precome completely unbidden. If he doesn’t put a stop to this, he’s going to come untouched before he’s even made it past the sitting room rug.

He snaps once with his left hand. John stops immediately and turns to face him, his brow furrowed with concern once more. Sherlock shudders with disappointment; he doesn’t want to pause this, but he can’t risk disobeying John and coming all over the carpet, putting an end to what was shaping up to be a completely transcendent session.

“Alright, love?”

Sherlock sits back onto his heels, revealing his raging erection to John, whimpering softly. He meets John’s eyes, pleading with him to understand.

“Oh, you’re a bit worked up, aren’t you, love?”

Sherlock nods and thrusts lightly into thin air, his cock pulsing thickly between his legs.

“Shhh, it’s alright. We can pause for a moment. Let’s just wait here while you get yourself back under control, eh? There’s no rush tonight.”

Sherlock sighs gratefully and closes his eyes, willing himself to regain control of his transport. He focuses on anything he can think of besides his cock; the sweet tang of the leather belt against his tongue, the rough fibers of the rug beneath his knees, the slight chill of the air drifting in through the poorly-sealed window frame. Then he focuses on John’s breathing, and synchronises his own to match it.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he opens his eyes, feeling calm and collected. John is gazing down at him, a look of polite bemusement on his face, and Sherlock meets his eyes with a determined nod.

“Beautiful. You did really well there, sweetheart, keeping yourself under control for me. Let’s get you to the bedroom, now.” And with another light tug on the belt, he’s leading a crawling Sherlock down the hall and into their bedroom.

By the time John is helping Sherlock to his feet, he’s dizzy with arousal once more. The short crawl from the sitting room to the bedroom has turned him into an exquisitely sensitive bundle of nerves, each point of contact a shock to the senses. 

John runs his fingers affectionately through Sherlock’s hair, then turns him around to face the bed, gently guiding him until he’s bent over it, arse in the air, feet on the ground, and his torso sinking into the plush duvet beneath him. 

“Beautiful. Stay.”

Sherlock hears John retreat to the closet momentarily, then return seconds later. Before he knows it, John is guiding his arms behind his back until he’s grasping his opposing elbows. John winds another belt around his forearms, locking them together. He whimpers at the sensation of helplessness and buries his face shyly into the duvet as John hums his approval from behind him.

And then John parts his cheeks and puts his tongue _there._

And Sherlock is _gone._

John rarely rims him; he’s done it occasionally during their sessions, but he keeps it scarce enough that it takes Sherlock by surprise every damn time. The sensation of John licking into his exposed hole is so shockingly intimate that it sends him reeling; he feels utterly wanton and filthy. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and it pushes every one of his senses into hyperdrive.

Before he knows it, he’s crying out helplessly, the sound muffled only slightly by the presence of the belt in his mouth; he’s distantly aware that he’s drooling around it. He’s shaking from head to toe and pushing himself shamelessly back onto John’s tongue, which is impaling him over and over in shallow, all-too-brief thrusts.

Undeterred, John withdraws his tongue and then begins to circle his rim over and over. He can feel himself relaxing, opening, preparing to receive John in whatever form he may offer himself. John’s ministrations are wet and decadently messy, and Sherlock can feel saliva dripping from his hole to his balls. He scrunches his eyes shut and moans against his gag.

As if on cue, John presses his lips to form a seal around Sherlock’s fluttering opening, and jabs his tongue inside as deep as it will go.

Sherlock is fairly certain he blacks out for a moment.

He comes back to himself slowly. His first thought is the state of his cock; had he come without permission? In a panic, he thrusts gently against the bed. 

To his extreme relief, he’s still hard and throbbing; he simply seems to have lost himself in the pleasure and gone beyond himself entirely.

But now he’s back, and John has three fingers inside him and is still lapping at his rim with fastidious devotion.

Sherlock rolls his body and moans. He has no idea where John is taking this, but he knows he wants more. More. More.

Finally, John pulls away, and his fingers disappear. His firm hands part Sherlock’s cheeks as wide as they’ll go, and Sherlock shudders with the delicious exposure.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. Look how wet and open you are for me, love. So ready for my cock. Would you like my cock now?”

Sherlock nods so hard and fast that John barks out a laugh. 

“Alright, then, sweetheart. Come on, up you get.” He grabs Sherlock by his bound forearms and bodily hauls him to his feet, where he balances precariously, attempting to re-acclimate to his surroundings. Behind him, he hears the sound of John removing his clothes.

John unceremoniously strips the duvet off the bed and then clambers onto it before reaching into the nightstand for the lube. He stacks a few pillows against the headboard, reclines against them, and then coats his gorgeous cock with a generous pump of lube.

“Alright, sweetheart. You’re going to ride my cock until you come. I’m not going to touch you, so you’ll need to get yourself off. I’ll just be here for the show.”

And with that, he tosses the lube aside, and stares at Sherlock with an expression of rapt anticipation.

Sherlock does his best not to combust then and there. Instead, he forces himself to scramble onto the bed as hastily as possible, nearly losing his balance twice as a result of his bound forearms trapped behind his back. He finally manages to swing a leg over, then he sits back as John holds his cock steady for Sherlock to impale himself.

He sinks down in one swift motion, bottoming out with his cheeks flush against John’s solid thighs. He throws his head back and wails. It’s ecstasy beyond compare.

But it could be better. It could be so much better. Doing his best to gather his wits about him, he begins to raise and lower himself onto John’s turgid length, angling his pelvis so that John is brushing his prostate every time. He gasps with the sensation.

“Oh, lovely. That’s it, sweetheart. Take my cock, just like that. Oh, do you like that? You like how I feel inside you?”

Sherlock whines and lets out a desperate nod, increasing the veracity of his movements, the urgency of his desire welling up inside him so hot and sweet he can almost taste it.

“Yes, come on. Harder. Harder, now, a little faster. Take it, there you go. Oh, yes, sweetheart, beautiful, come on, don’t stop now. Come on, take my cock. Fuck yourself. Take it, take it...” And with that, John reaches behind Sherlock’s head to grasp the tail end of the belt once more and pulls, snapping Sherlock’s head back, exposing his throat. John leans forward and bites down on the pale skin, hard.

Sherlock comes.

It’s a messy, dizzying orgasm. John continues to grind up into him as Sherlock rides out the waves of his pleasure, streaking his come between them in hot, urgent pulses. It seems to go on forever, and by the time John has removed his teeth from his throat and released his hold on the belt, Sherlock feels utterly and completely spent.

John kisses him. It’s wet around where the belt is caught between his lips, and John licks against his mouth. Sherlock moans, the sensation almost more than he can take.

Finally, John pulls away, grinning wickedly.

“That was beautiful, love. You were so good for me, so perfect. You’re brilliant, amazing, God, I’m so lucky to have you.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes, melting into John’s praise.

Suddenly, John’s hand is wrapping around his spent, over-sensitised cock, and stroking. Hard.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open.

“I want you to do it again, now. Come on, take my cock a little more. I’m going to make you come again, sweetheart, right here, just like this. Come on, move.”

Sherlock can’t possibly. He can’t _possibly._ He feels weak from his previous orgasm, and his cock feels hot and tender in John’s firm grip.

“Sweetheart. NOW.” John grabs the belt behind Sherlock’s head again, pulling him upright, exposing his throat. Sherlock moans and begins to bounce.

John is at least slightly merciful; he plants his feet on the mattress and bends his legs so that Sherlock can lean back against them, his bound forearms resting against John’s powerful thighs. John begins to thrust up into him in time with his strokes, and Sherlock lets out a shuddering gasp. It hurts. It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

“Oh, love. Look at that. You’re getting hard again, can you believe it? I’m going to make you come again soon, sweetheart. Just relax. Let it happen. Shhh. Let it happen.”

John’s hand speeds up on Sherlock’s shaft, which is slowly beginning to harden. Sherlock’s come is keeping John’s strokes slick and decadent despite his current state of overstimulation, and John grins at Sherlock as his cock begins to twitch feebly in his hand.

“There you go. I knew you could do it. Come on, now. I want you to get nice and hard for me.” With that, he tugs Sherlock’s head further back with the belt, forcing his chest forward. John sits up and catches Sherlock’s right nipple in his teeth.

Sherlock screams around his gag. His nipples are always incredibly sensitive, and his current state of overstimulation has him on a hair trigger. 

But John is relentless. He bites and sucks at Sherlock’s nipple until it’s swollen and hard, then immediately redirects his attention to the other one. All the while, he never lets up with his ministrations on his cock.

Sherlock can’t take it any longer. John’s cock is reaming him mercilessly, igniting him from the inside out, and his chest feels like it’s alight with flames. His own cock is throbbing angrily between his straining legs. He’s distantly aware of John issuing a steady stream of encouragement and praise in his direction, but he’s too out of it to process any of it.

He tips his head back, and comes again.

“Ohhhhh… Ohhhh… Oh, sweetheart… Oh, sweetheart…” John’s voice sounds like he’s underwater. Sherlock simply leans back and shivers helplessly through the final cresting waves, pulsing wetly into John’s coaxing hand.

“Oh, love. Oh, love, that was beautiful. Look at the mess you’ve made of yourself.” Sherlock blearily blinks his eyes open and casts them down to where his chest is heaving in time with John’s, covered in yet another thick coat of come. 

John leans forward and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s bowed forehead. Sherlock is shaking; it feels as though his entire body is on hyperdrive. The only thing he can process is that he wants more. _More._

Luckily, John (clever, _perfect_ John) has never been anything less than obliging. Before Sherlock can even process the thought, John is tipping him over onto his side and rolling him onto his back, John’s cock slipping out momentarily as he presses a trail of soft, wet kisses down Sherlock’s sternum to his come-soaked abdomen. He runs his tongue along the trail there before surging back up to press yet another kiss against Sherlock’s leather-bound mouth. Sherlock moans and arches, parting his legs, willing John to press inside him yet again.

Maddeningly, John does no such thing. He simply sits back onto his heels and stares down at Sherlock’s prone form, his hands running up and down his sides, then presses his thighs gently apart, spreading him further.

Sherlock lets out a mortifyingly high-pitched whine and arches again. This position is less than ideal with his bound forearms crushed beneath him; he can’t attain any reasonable level of comfort here, and he suspects that may be a part of John’s plan. He twists uncomfortably, fixing his pleading gaze to John’s.

John grins down at him, completely cool and cavalier. Christ, how could he be this collected while Sherlock was all but levitating off the damn bed? It’s supernatural, witchcraft, sorcery of the darkest sort--

And then John is leaning forward and grabbing the loose end of the belt behind Sherlock’s head once again, wrapping it into his fist and pulling it tight, exerting complete control. The gag acts like a pair of reins, snapping Sherlock’s head into position, and he bites down into the unforgiving leather and gives a futile tug at the belt binding his forearms behind him, rocking his shoulders helplessly.

John tuts at him, his eyes bright and fond. “Ah, ah, sweetheart. Don’t struggle now. I want you to be good for me tonight. Remember, you said you’d be good?”

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, but manages a small nod.

“Excellent. That’s wonderful news, love. Now, I want you to hold still while I fuck you, yeah? If you’re good, I’ll give you my come. Would you like that?”

Sherlock nods frantically, his eyes flying open. Fucking _finally._

John laughs. “Alright, then, it’s agreed. Let me have you now, sweetheart, shhh.” With his spare hand not occupied holding the belt gag in place, he reaches behind Sherlock and hauls the lower half of his body into his lap. Sherlock lets out a rather undignified squeak; he loves it when John manhandles him like this, putting him completely at his mercy…

Before he can even complete the thought, the thick head of John’s cock is pushing past his rim and impaling him yet again. He screams against his gag, the overstimulation of his prostate from his two consecutive orgasms proving to be more than he can handle. His head thrashes from side to side, and he can feel tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

John grins wickedly down at him and pulls the belt in his mouth tight, stilling his head with abrupt finality.

“Shhhh. Be still now, sweetheart. Going to take you, now.” And with that, John begins to thrust.

It’s a violent, punishing thing. Sherlock wants nothing more than to make it stop. It’s all too much; the taut leather in his mouth immobilizing his head. The feeling of his own flaccid, spent cock, coated in cooling come, bouncing against his abdomen as John pistons up into him. And more than any of it, the feeling of John so deep inside him, setting a relentless barrage against his abused prostate. God, he wants nothing more than to make it stop.

_Except for it never to stop._

He feels completely at peace, completely free. He’s surrendered to John completely, and John has taken over the helm of his transport and is navigating them with his steady, certain hands. He is absolving Sherlock of everything-- not just last night, night just Victor, but _all_ of it, he’s pushing Sherlock beyond _all_ of it, to a place Sherlock had never dared dream existed until the first time John had shown him. John had proven to him. What it could be.

What they could be.

He wails and lets his thighs fall back to his chest, allowing John to plunge in even deeper still. John’s brow is lined with sweat and creased in concentration, his arms flexing with the effort of holding Sherlock perfectly in place. He moans.

“Mmm, yes, mine. _Mine.”_

It’s not the first time John has said this while they were _unwinding,_ but it’s certainly the most impactful. Sherlock is hit with a wave of lust so strong that he’s caught completely off-guard. He wants more of _that, Christ,_ how does he get John to give him more of _that?!?_

He snaps his gaze to meet John’s, and holds it with a blazing intensity, willing John to understand what he’s trying so desperately to communicate. He nods violently. _Yes. Yes, John. Yours._

A look of understanding passes across John’s face, and Sherlock can feel his hand tighten in the belt, holding him in place more firmly still. 

“MINE. Yes, God, mine, mine, gonna… oh, Christ, sweetheart, gonna come inside you… OH, God, that’s it, hold still, take it, take it now, you’re mine, mine, mine, mine, mine…”

And with one final proclamation, John comes, pulsing into Sherlock in hot, steady waves. His hand yanks the belt back, forcing Sherlock to arch off the bed, his muscles contracting, clenching down around John’s still-rigid length, setting off another wave of ecstasy that John rides out with vocal enthusiasm.

Finally, he finishes. For a moment there is nothing but the sound of their tandem breathing, wet and frantic in the silence of the bedroom.

Eventually John sits up and pulls out, then climbs hastily to his feet. He turns to survey Sherlock, who is fairly certain he looks wrecked beyond repair.

“Get up.” It’s John’s Captain voice; apparently he means business. Sherlock scrambles to comply, flailing helplessly for a moment, the act of getting to his feet considerably more difficult than usual with his forearms still bound tight behind him. But at last, he manages, for once his dignity the last thing on his mind.

John smiles at him. “Good.” He reaches onto the bed for the Union Jack pillow (had he brought it with him from the sitting room? Christ, Sherlock hadn’t even noticed) and tosses it onto the ground by the bedpost. “Kneel.”

Sherlock goes to his knees instantly. He feels drunk, or like he’s flying, maybe. John could have asked him to hop on one foot and sing God Save the Queen and he’d’ve complied without a second thought. _Christ,_ the high John can give him is goddamn _incredible…_

“Beautiful, sweetheart. Are you alright to keep going?”

Sherlock nods so hard he nearly strains his neck.

John chuckles. “Good. Good. Hold still, now.” He reaches gently behind Sherlock’s head and grabs the end of the belt, which he proceeds to fasten to the bedpost at the foot of the bed. He gives it a quick yank, testing the knot, then seemingly satisfied, takes a step back.

“Alright. You’re going to stay here and wait for me. I’ll have you again when I’m ready.”

Sherlock bows his head, resigned to their separation, but still gives a small nod.

“Good. Just shout if you need me, I won’t be far.” John ruffles his hair fondly and walks out of the room.

Sherlock drifts. He’s not sure for how long. He never is, when he’s like this. He’s dimly aware of his surroundings, to the extent that he knows his knees are growing a bit sore in this position, and that his mouth feels slightly dry as his tongue presses against the leather clasped resolutely between his teeth, but it’s all just a faint buzzing in the back of his mind, secondary to the beautiful floating sensation enveloping him, his brain gorging itself on endorphins and dopamine and oxytocin. He closes his eyes and allows himself to be fully _present_ in it, to be immersed in the moment, to revel in this place that only John can take him. It is his transport as only John can make him experience it.

John’s footsteps in the hall snap him back into total awareness. His eyes fly open just in time to see John enter the room. His gaze falls to Sherlock, and he breaks into an electric smile. Sherlock all but melts into a puddle then and there.

“Hi there, gorgeous. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise around his gag. John approaches him and takes his chin in his hand, tipping his face up towards his.

“Christ, you’re so beautiful. I’m going to ungag you for a moment now, alright?” Sherlock shakes his head vehemently; he doesn’t want the gag removed, he _likes_ it, it makes him feel centred…

“Shhh, none of that, sweetheart. I’ll put it back in just a second, but I want you to drink some water first, alright?”

_Oh_. Well, that was a different story entirely. Now that he thinks about it, some water would be quite delightful, indeed. He hums his consent, and John chuckles.

The leather slips from between his lips and suddenly, he’s gasping, desperately seeking the straw that John guides gently into his mouth before drinking deeply, sucking down the water like a man dying of thirst.

“Easy now, easy sweetheart. Not too fast.” He makes himself slow down. “There we go. Much better.”

Sherlock polishes off half the glass, and John presses a kiss to his now-quenched lips before slipping the belt back between them and fastening it into place once more. He ties the loose end back to the bedpost and sits back.

“Alright, love. Feeling good?” Sherlock nods. _Good_ doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he’s feeling; he can’t wait to find out what John plans for him next. “Good. Stay right there.” John makes his way to the nightstand and fetches the lube, then returns to kneel in front of Sherlock, kissing his forehead gently as he descends to his level. He squeezes some lube into his own palm and then reaches forward to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand.

Sherlock jerks as though he’s received an electric shock. He hadn’t even been aware that he was aroused, but it’s suddenly blatantly obvious that not only is he aroused, but he’s outrageously hard, his cock twitching earnestly in John’s firm grasp. John grins and begins to pump his length, then he slowly leans in to press a trail of tender hisses across Sherlock’s cheekbone.

Sherlock lets out a high whine in the back of his throat. Christ, John’s hand feels _incredible,_ firm and tight and fucking perfect, it’s so good, it’s so _good,_ he’s going to--he’s going to--

And then John’s hand is _gone._ Sherlock all but collapses forward with disappointment, but the belt in his mouth catches and holds him upright, leaving him straining and whimpering in distress.

“Shhh, shhh, love, it’s alright, you’re alright. Steady now.” John is sitting back on his heels, watching impassively as Sherlock struggles to get himself back under control. “Be good, love. Steady.”

Sherlock heaves in a deep breath through his nose. _Edging_ is well within their wheelhouse, and they have it down to a practiced art. Sherlock wills himself to be calm, to focus, to give John what he’s asking of him.

Moments later, John is grinning at him as though he’s hung the moon. _“Perfect,_ sweetheart. Lovely. We’ll go again, now.” And then John is leaning forward once more, his hand cupping and fondling Sherlock’s balls as his lips work their magic on that particular spot below Sherlock’s ear that makes him feel like his blood is on fire.

He doesn’t reach his breaking point as quickly this time, since he knows what’s coming. John works him over more slowly, first just massaging his balls, then pressing gently behind them, teasing his perineum, making the pressure within him mount deliciously slowly. At long last John makes his way to Sherlock’s shaft, and it’s only two quick strokes before Sherlock is nearly cresting, and John withdraws his hands and lips and sits back immediately, content to watch Sherlock battle it out.

It isn’t easy. The desire to _come_ has risen up in him swiftly, and his skin feels uncomfortably tight and flushed, his body wound up and desperate for release. He’s sweating and trembling slightly, and John gazes at him with an expression of polite bemusement as he struggles to regain control of himself.

At long last, he’s calm again, his transport back under his fragile command, and he meets John’s eyes with a determined gaze.

“That’s lovely, sweetheart. So lovely.” John surges forward off his heels onto his knees, and leans in until his lips are inches from Sherlock’s. Sherlock leans forward eagerly to meet them-- only to be forcibly jerked back by the belt he’d completely forgotten was in his mouth. John grins at him devilishly, then leans forward until just their foreheads meet, heated breath intermingling between them. John doesn’t kiss Sherlock, he simply breathes with him. And then slowly, agonisingly, he begins to swirl his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock.

It’s torture of the highest degree. His touch is so light and exquisite that Sherlock could weep with the pure perfection of it, teasing Sherlock’s most sensitive nerve endings to the point of total desperation. John doesn’t even move to kiss Sherlock anymore; he simply lets their foreheads rest against one another, Sherlock’s damp with the strain of maintaining control as he’s teased into oblivion.

And oblivion comes quickly. Sherlock doesn’t reach the edge again, but he does reach a peculiar sort of plateau: He’s unimaginably turned on, but he’s not receiving enough stimulation to come. John simply strings him out on a single gossamer thread of desire, delicate and crystalline in its shimmering perfection. 

Sherlock barely registers it when he begins to cry. A part of it is desperation, that much is certain, but there’s also the overwhelming emotion of transcendent _perfection_ that fills him with such a profound sense of gratitude, he feels incapable of processing it. He simply submits himself to John’s control, and wills him to understand.

And it seems that he does. Moments later, John is kissing away the tears that are streaming down Sherlock’s cheeks, murmuring words of praise and encouragement under his breath as Sherlock leans desperately towards him, as far as the gag in his mouth with allow.

“Alright, sweetheart, you’ve done so well. Are you ready to come for me?” Sherlock nods blearily, and John presses a firm kiss against his parted lips. “Alright, then. Come.”

And with that, he begins to pump Sherlock’s shaft with calculated precision.

Sherlock’s orgasm slams through him like a tsunami. He’d barely felt it coming on, and then the next moment, he’s screaming into his gag as he expels what feels like an impossible amount of semen into John’s hand and up his own abdomen. He’s fairly certain some of it lands as high as his sternum. He’s shaken to his very core.

As soon as it’s over, John mercifully releases his cock and sits back onto his heels once more, looking Sherlock over appraisingly. He’s lolling heavily against his gag, held upright only by the tautness of the belt in his mouth preventing him from tipping forward, his forearms still held fast behind his back.

For a moment, John gazes upon Sherlock with impossible fondness. The next moment, Captain John is back, his gaze measured and calculating. 

“Alright, my turn.” He rises to his feet to unfasten the belt from the footboard. “Up you get.” Sherlock clambers unsteadily to his feet, his legs full of pins and needless and his head light from the redirected blood flow, still off balance from the suspension of his arms behind his back. John manhandles him roughly to face the bed, then presses between his shoulderblades to bend him over it. “Perfect. Be still, now. Going to have you again.”

And with that, John thrusts inside. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad, had he left it at that. Sherlock is accustomed to taking John when he’s blissed-out and spent, coming down from the high of his own release; the overstimulation he experiences when John fucks him when he’s in this state, while not exactly pleasant, is enjoyable enough. He’s usually aware of any discomfort in a hazy, imprecise way, muted and blurred by the rush of endorphins saturating his own brain. If anything, taking John whilst reveling in his own post-orgasmic glow makes him feel deliciously owned and desired, a sensation he finds wholly unobjectionable.

But tonight, John doesn’t just bend him over and take him. After only a few shallow, experimental thrusts, Sherlock feels him grab the loose end of the belt behind his head and pull it taut, while simultaneously gripping the belt wrapped around his forearms and pressing them down ruthlessly into Sherlock’s lower back. The dual sensations force Sherlock’s back into an unnatural arch; his head rearing back and up as it’s pulled by the gag between his teeth, his abdomen pressed into the bed by the full weight of John pushing down on his arms.

John holds him firmly in place, and thrusts again.

Sherlock screams. Something about the angle of his back in this position has seemingly caused every muscle in his body to contract, and it comes to his immediate attention that this apparently includes the muscles of his rectal canal, anal sphincter, and pelvic floor (in his current state of shock, he’s unable to summon their Latin names as he normally would when he wants to get his transport back under control). He’s clenched vice-tight around John’s throbbing length, and he feels all at once as though John can’t possibly penetrate him properly when he’s in this state.

From behind him, John lets out a strangled yell and thrusts forward again, harder this time, and Sherlock can feel his cock sink just a bit deeper, forcing his seizing muscles apart in his wake. Sherlock screams again, the shock of it dizzying and disorientating to the extreme.

He feels John pause. And then he understands; John is giving him a chance to snap, a chance to tap out, a chance to let him know if it’s too much.

Sherlock takes a blazing fast internal assessment of the situation: He’s in extreme discomfort, yes, but he senses no danger in what John’s doing. John has fucked him once already tonight, and from the feel of it, he’s applied more lube before this round, so Sherlock’s passage feels slick and smooth-- just unnaturally tight. He can say with near certainty that if John continues to penetrate him, his muscles will eventually make way for the intrusion. He can take this. For John.

Ever so slightly, he nods.

John doesn’t give him a chance to second-guess himself. The next thing Sherlock knows, John has redoubled his hold on the belt, arching Sherlock even more as he relentlessly presses down on his lower back.

Then John thrusts again, and Sherlock cries out, a plaintive, otherworldly wail that he can hardly believe came from his own body. He can feel John’s cock pushing earnestly into him, still not at full depth, but unwavering in the pursuit.

“CHRIST, oh sweetheart, God, so tight…”

Sherlock shakes his head helplessly. He can feel tears welling up in his eyes.

John slams forward again, yanking Sherlock’s head back in tandem with his thrust, and this time, he bottoms out completely. Sherlock screams once more.

“OH, there it is. There we are, love.” John grinds his pelvis in slow circles, reveling in his triumph. “Hold on, now. Just a little more.”

And then John begins to ream into him relentlessly, each thrust agony and ecstasy all mixed into one.

Sherlock is beyond comprehension. It _hurts_ , God, it’s _torture,_ but it also feels fucking _incredible._ He’s clenched so tightly that every thrust of John’s cock feels like the first time, each penetration an insurmountable challenge until somehow, miraculously, John pushes past it and slides home, only to withdraw and do it all over again. Sherlock can feel his muscles battling against the intrusion, furling tight each time John yanks his head back to arch him, then surrendering to the steel-hard heat of John’s cock, spasming around it with each plundering thrust.

The sensation of it all threatens to overwhelm him, but he focuses on remaining as steady and pliant as possible, on letting John use his body as he will. It instills in him a sense of serene calm and purpose completely at odds with the ravaging his body is currently enduring.

He’s still screaming, he knows that. But he’s also aware that John is being the most vocal he’s ever heard him; he’s shouting; wild, animalistic yelps echoing off the walls of the bedroom, intermingling with Sherlock’s own cries. It’s somehow reassuring to know that John has lost himself here, too.

He has no concept of how long it lasts. He’s disappeared into the blazing intensity of it all, the warring sensations of pain and pleasure, of surrender and release.

When John comes, it’s loud and it’s violent. Sherlock sobs into his gag as John wrenches him into place and holds him there as he pumps brutally into him. Sherlock can’t fight, he can’t even _breathe,_ he just slams his eyes shut and wills himself to hold on, surely it will be over soon.

And finally, it is. The pressure on the belt in his mouth disappears, and he collapses forward onto the bed, heaving breath into his burning lungs, his back in agony as it’s finally released from the forced arch it had been in for so long. The tears don’t stop, though. They continue as John lazily rides him, chasing the last shivering remnants of his pleasure, pressing his softening prick into Sherlock’s hole until finally, he can’t carry on any longer and pulls out.

“That’ll do, sweetheart. Very nice.”

Sherlock buries his face into the mattress and snuffles wetly into the sheets. John parts his cheeks to inspect him, and hums his approval.

He vaguely processes the sensation of John unbinding his arms, massaging them briskly before letting them fall to his sides. Then the knot in the belt is loosened, and the gag is slipping wetly from between his lips, a trail of saliva stringing behind it as John pulls it away and sets it aside. Finally, the feeling of John’s fingers in his hair, combing it softly, and the weight of John’s body as he sits down on the bed beside him.

“You with me, love?”

Sherlock is barely able to turn his head enough to cast a sideways glance up at John, and when he does, he finds it hard to meet his eyes. He feels wrecked, completely adrift, and he’s paralysed with the unmooring freedom of it.

John smiles down at him, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“I know that was a lot, sweetheart, but you did so well. Do you want to be done now? If you do, snap your fingers three times, or just say the words. Otherwise, we keep going.”

_Keep going?_ The idea feels insurmountably foreign and overwhelming. John has just claimed him so violently, made him surrender so completely, what more could he possibly want?

Sherlock suddenly discovers that he wants nothing more than to find out.

He blinks up at John, willing the tears out of his eyes. His fingertips remain defiantly still.

John breaks into a dazzling grin.

He runs a soothing hand up and down Sherlock’s back, gentling him, rewarding him for his obedience. “Alright, then, easy now. We’ll go slow for this next part, yeah?”

Sherlock nods blearily before burying his face in the sheets again.

“Come on, none of that, no playing coy with me. Can you stand? Here, let me help.” With the gentleness of a practiced physician, John’s arms wrap around him and guide him slowly to his feet. Sherlock feels so loopy it’s as though he’s high; he’s nearly seeing double, and he staggers slightly with the effort of being in an upright position. 

“Easy does it, love, just like that. Here.” John turns and retrieves the half-full glass of water of the nightstand and holds the straw to Sherlock’s lips. He drinks thirstily; his mouth feels dry and cottony from being gagged for so long, and his throat is sore from screaming. The water is a mercy beyond measure.

As soon as he finishes, John guides him gently towards the bed once more. 

“Alright, now. I want you to lie down, flat on your stomach, in the centre of the bed. Yes, sweetheart, perfect, that’s brilliant, just like that. Are you comfortable?”

Sherlock nods.

“Wonderful. Stay right there.” Sherlock momentarily tenses, concerned that John may be leaving him, but his worries are soon alleviated; John’s footsteps retreat to the closet momentarily, and then return to the bedside without hesitation. 

“Alright, now. Hold your arms out towards the bedposts, yes, just like that.” The feeling of leather around his left wrist. Christ, John is tying him up again-- a cold shiver rakes its way down his spine, and he gasps in a shuddering breath as he wills himself to stay calm.

John circles to the other side of the bed, and then it’s Sherlock’s right wrist, bound to the bedpost with the other leather belt, same as his left.

“Beautiful.” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and he returns the gesture immediately, signalling that blood flow is unimpeded. John checks the left as well, then gives a contented hum and steps back.

“How are you feeling, love? Alright?”

Sherlock nods, but John lets the silence linger on. Clearly he wants a verbal response. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Hold still, be good for me, now.” Sherlock hears John approach the end of the bed, then his hands are on Sherlock’s ankles, pressing his legs apart. The next thing Sherlock knows, John is taking a third belt (one of his this time? Sherlock can’t deduce in his current mental state) and wrapping it around Sherlock’s left ankle before securing it to the corresponding bedpost. He repeats the process with his right ankle.

Then John steps away entirely to survey the scene.

Sherlock tries to move. He’s not trying to be disobedient, per se; he’s simply filled with the compulsion to understand the extent of his bondage and the limits of his restraints. John has tied his wrists to the headboard on countless occasions before, but he very rarely binds Sherlock’s legs, and he’s never employed the footboard for this purpose before. The sensation of being tied spread-eagle to the footboard is humbling indeed, and Sherlock is impressed to find that he is extremely well immobilized. 

He lets out a whine that’s born of a heady combination of helplessness and arousal.

“Oh, yes, love. Gorgeous.” Sherlock feels the mattress dip as John climbs onto the bed beside him. He begins to trail a line of soft, lavish kisses along Sherlock’s spine, licking the divots between each vertebrae as he makes his way down.

“Mmmm.” John is murmuring soft words between kisses, slurred with arousal and desire. “So perfect, so beautiful, spread out all for me. Struggle again for me, sweetheart, let me see you pull. Oh, that’s lovely. You’re all tied up and at my mercy, aren’t you, love? Mine for the taking?”

Sherlock whimpers his assent.

“Beautiful. You’ll stay here and wait for me, love, until I’m ready to have you again. I think I’ll put in your plug to make sure you stay nice and open for me, how would that be?”

Sherlock moans quietly and struggles against his bindings; the idea of having anything else put up his arse tonight sounds absolutely abhorrent, he’s in plenty of pain already.

“Shhh, just relax now, love. Here, have these.” John grabs his dog tags from where they’re trailing from the chain around Sherlock’s neck, and places them into Sherlock’s mouth. “There you go. Suck on those and just relax.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and does just that. The taste of the metal is beautifully soothing, and his tongue traces its practiced path along the beveled edges of John’s name. He closes his eyes and focuses all of his concentration around the sensation.

He barely registers it as John parts his cheeks and seats his plug inside of him. He’s lost inside his own mind, in a sea of a thousand brilliant sensations, each and every one of them to do with _John._

John must have left. He must have, because he comes back, but Sherlock sure as hell doesn’t remember him going, making his return disorientating and strange. But somehow, miraculously, his footsteps are in the hall and then in the doorway of the bedroom and then approaching the side of the bed. And then his hand is in Sherlock’s and he’s squeezing and Sherlock is squeezing back, and then he’s touching Sherlock’s feet, checking his reflexes and his blood flow. And then he’s on the bed (Sherlock can’t see him since he’s lying face down, but he feels the mattress dip between his legs and he hears the rustling of the sheets and no, he’s not an idiot, he can deduce that this means John is on the bed, so obvious) and then he’s got one hand beside Sherlock’s head and then the other is pulling the plug between his cheeks and then his cock is penetrating him and his other hand is bracketing Sherlock’s head and John is thrusting and Sherlock can’t move, he can’t breathe, he pulls against his unrelenting restraints but it isn’t any use (of course it’s no use, his own prodigious strength is no match for leather even when he’s in top physical form, and John’s knot-tying skills are nothing short of immaculate) and he’s being _ravaged_ and this is brutal, this is obscene, his legs are spread so far by their restraints that he can’t offer even the slightest bit of resistance to the invasion of John’s unrelenting cock. And John isn’t pulling any punches; he’s fucking Sherlock with rigorous vigor, his angle deep and deliberate despite everything he’s put Sherlock through already. He’s pulling no punches; it’s dominance displayed in its rawest form.

Sherlock moans, John’s dog tags slipping wetly from his mouth.

“Oh, yes, you like that? You like how my cock feels inside you? Christ, sweetheart, you’re filthy, you’re so messy, I wish you could see it, love. I’ve ruined you, haven’t I? You feel how wet you are around me? Oh, God, love, it’s so good. You’re so good. You’re so fucking good.”

Sherlock can only moan again.

“Yeah. Oh, yeah, take it, now. That’s it. That’s it. Mmmm, your arse is incredible, sweetheart. And it’s mine, all mine, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nods helplessly.

“I need to hear you say it, love. _Oh fuck--_ Say it…”

“Yours, John.”

“That’s right, it’s all mine. Your arse is _mine, fuck._ Never let anyone else have it, have you?”

“No, John. You, only you.”

_“Fuck, yeah,_ that’s right, only me, I’m the only… I’m the only one… you let have you… like this, _Christ,_ Sherlock, oh, God…”

John is losing control. It’s a bit difficult for Sherlock to tell, exactly-- after all, he’s facedown on the mattress and John isn’t even touching him anywhere besides the point where he’s penetrating him (his hands remain resolutely bracketing Sherlock’s head, holding his torso away from Sherlock, denying him the contact), but his words are growing wet and desperate. Sherlock feels pulled in by his desperation, a wave sucked helplessly back out to sea.

“Nnnngh, _yes, John, Captain, yours, only yours, only ever --nnngggh-- ever been yours…”_

“Yes, mine, all mine, mine, gonna-- gonna come, oh God, gonna come inside you, gonna…. Gonna fill you up, sweetheart, fill up your perfect arse, oh God, gonna come, gonna-- _Oh!”_ And with that, John is spilling inside him yet again, pumping heated waves of come into his already-slick channel.

Sherlock gasps and strains against the bindings as John rides it out. John indulges himself, prolonging his pleasure, grinding himself into Sherlock as his ecstasy ebbs, delighting in the sensation of Sherlock fluttering around him, gasping for relief.

Finally, he stills. Sherlock expects him to pull out, but just before he does, John leans down and bites the base of his neck, _hard._ Sherlock howls.

Behind him, John snuffs affectionately against his neck and presses a few open-mouthed kisses onto the bite mark. Sherlock whimpers under his ministrations, unsure if he wants more or if he’s reached his breaking point.

And then John pulls out and climbs off the bed, with nothing but an affectionate squeeze of Sherlock’s arsecheeks in parting.

“Alright, love. Do you want to come now?”

Did he want to _come?_ Sherlock’s not sure he’s even turned on-- he’s so far gone he can barely process what’s just happened; assessing the state of his own transport feels like an insurmountable challenge.

But John has asked him a question, and Sherlock will not disappoint. Reluctantly, he thrusts lightly against the mattress.

And _holy shit._ Not only is he turned on, he’s fucking hard as steel. He doesn’t even remember getting aroused; when the hell had this happened?!

All he knows is that he needs to come. Urgently.

“Yes! Oh, God, John, Captain, yes. Please, yes.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” John taps Sherlock’s hip and he raises his pelvis off the mattress obediently, expecting John to slip a hand beneath him. 

Instead, John simply places the Union Jack pillow under him, and then takes three paces back, and eyes him coolly.

“Go ahead. Make yourself come for me. I’ll watch.”

Sherlock can feel his cheeks flush, but he’s powerless to resist. He needs to get off, however possible, it doesn’t matter--if John wants to watch him hump this pillow like an animal, Sherlock is not going to say no.

He thrusts once, and the sensation rises up in him with urgency. He moans, and thrusts again.

“Oh, yes, love, that’s it. Go on, now. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Eyes on me.” Sherlock had unknowingly let his eyes drift shut, but he forces them open to meet John’s appraising gaze. It’s mortifying and unbelievably erotic all at once.

“Come on, there we go, oh, that’s it, love. Is that feeling good?” Sherlock can only muster a high-pitched whine between thrusts. The immobilized state of his arms and legs makes getting the friction he desires tricky, and he can feel beads of sweat forming at his browline.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re almost there, I can see it. So beautiful. Are you going to come for me? Yeah? Oh, yes, love. There you go. Just let it happen. Come for me. Go on.”

And Sherlock comes, in desperate, beautiful waves, undulating his body as vigorously as he can as he releases onto the pillow and his own abdomen in a glorious mess.

By the time he’s done, he’s shivering. John is crouched by the bedside, pressing his sweat-slick curls back from his face, grinning down at him like he’s the centre of the very universe.

“That was beautiful, love.” He leans forward to press a kiss against Sherlock’s cheek. “We’re all done now. Do you want to stay like this for a bit?”

Sherlock feels wrecked. He feels debauched and wanton and utterly filthy and--

“Oh, God, yes.”

John smirks. “Thought you might. Alright, I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ll be back in a bit to get you cleaned up, but if you need me before then, just yell. I won’t be far. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

And with that, John takes his leave.

It’s taken a long time for Sherlock to come to terms with why he likes this part so much. It seems strange that, as a man so devoted to fastidious cleanliness, he could delight in lying prone and restrained, his chest and abdomen soaked in his own come, his arse leaking from three loads of someone else’s, sweat-soaked and spent.

But he understands it, now--or at least, he’s starting to. He likes this part because he feels _claimed_. He’s submitted himself entirely to John, he’s allowed himself and his transport to be used for John’s pleasure, and in the process, he has experienced pleasure himself. He’s pleased John, and this pleases him, and he’s John’s now, wholly and completely-- from the come in his arse to the tags around his neck to the bite marks and bruises on his skin. He’s never been anyone else’s. Not like this. Not even close. He never will be.

And he drifts on that beautiful thought into the wild, wandering oblivion that awaits.


	8. Chapter 8

John checks his watch.

It’s been 30 minutes. Usually he likes to give Sherlock a good 45 minutes to an hour to enjoy himself once they’ve concluded a session before moving on to aftercare, but John is _exhausted._ He can hardly start to process the events of the day; it feels completely impossible that just that morning he’d been at the inn in Surrey, anticipating a long day of travel followed by a hot shower and perhaps some lovely (vanilla) reunion sex before retiring early to sleep off the effects of a weekend of socializing and drinking.

And somehow now it’s nearly midnight. The session had been long, just short of five hours, and as soon as they’d finished, John had set about making preparations for the aftercare. He finally lets himself take a moment of his own, filling up a glass of water and leaning heavily against the kitchen table as he downs it, nearly dead on his feet.

Finally, he rights himself, rolls out his aching shoulders and neck, and makes his way down the hallway. He has to move things along, or he’ll be of no use to Sherlock at all. And Sherlock needs him now.

The bedroom reeks of sex. It hits him like a wall, lighting up his lizard brain, the highlights of the evening replaying in his mind in vibrant detail. He grins to himself as he approaches the bed.

Sherlock looks completely calm and placid, the expression of peace on his face at total odds with the debauched state of his body. A thrill of perverse pride runs up John’s spine as he surveys Sherlock’s restrained form. _He’s_ reduced Sherlock to this-- _him!_ Somehow John Watson has taken the transport of that bold, beautiful mind and transformed him into this wanton creature, coated in the evidence of his pleasure, splayed before him like a feast.

It’s a privilege beyond measure. He will never take that for granted.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Sherlock opens his eyes and blinks owlishly up at him. “Hi.”

“You ready to get cleaned up?”

Sherlock sighs and strains lightly against his bindings before melting back into the mattress. “Mmm, I suppose. If we must.”

John snorts out a laugh. “I’m afraid we must. At the very least, you’re hogging the bed. I’ve got nowhere to lie down.”

“And whose fault is that?” Sherlock pulls against his bindings once more, his tone accusatory but light.

“Fair point. But come here, now, let me get you out of these.” He makes his way around the bed, hastily untying Sherlock’s limbs from the belts binding them to the bedposts. He rubs the skin that had been beneath the leather vigorously, ensuring that the blood flow hadn’t been compromised and that no chafing had occurred. There’s some signs of light bruising from the times Sherlock had struggled, but nothing for concern.

Finally, he helps an unsteady Sherlock to his feet.

This is the part that’s difficult for John. The pain Sherlock is in is written on his face, and he makes no effort to hide it; John had been rough with him tonight, both with the penetration and with the bondage, and it’s evident from his impeded gait as John guides him to the bathroom that he’s feeling the effects. John knows objectively that he’d given Sherlock what he wanted; nothing more, nothing less, but still, seeing the man he loves in this state isn’t easy. Sherlock seems small, helpless, and a little lost as he lists heavily into John’s side. John pulls him close, and holds him steady as he leans down to turn on the shower taps.

He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, centring on the notion that now is his chance to show Sherlock his other side; to let him know how truly beloved and cherished he is.

He turns and gives him his warmest smile.

“Alright, sweetheart. You were so good for me tonight, you know that?”

Sherlock nods shyly and licks his lips.

“Good. Will you let me take care of you now?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Yes, John. Please, John.”

“Fantastic. God, you’re gorgeous. Here, let me help you in.” He guides Sherlock under the spray and follows him in, then proceeds to scrub him down with a flannel infused with sandalwood soap. They use it only on these occasions, and the smell makes John feel comforted and peaceful, the pleasant memories of past sessions wafting through his mind like the steam swirling around them.

It takes him a while to get Sherlock clean. He’d come all over himself multiple times, and John is shocked to find semen as far up as his collarbone, and as far down as his kneecaps. Washing Sherlock’s cock is especially difficult; it was covered in the remnants of his releases but also blisteringly oversensitive, and Sherlock whimpers pathetically the whole time John is wiping it down.

“Shhh, sweetheart, just a little more. Hold on, almost finished. You’re doing so well, yeah? Just have to get you nice and clean, there we go, shhh now…” Sherlock leans back against the tiles on the wall and closes his eyes, sighing wetly.

Finally, his front half is passably clean. John urges him to stand upright, and then turns him to press his forearms against the wall and spread his legs.

“Alright, love. This part may be a little tender, but it will be over soon, okay?” Sherlock nods and leans forward to rest his forehead against his forearms, the water trailing enticing rivulets down the scars on his back. It takes all of John’s willpower to not get lost in the vision.

But now’s not the time. There’s more to take care of.

He parts Sherlock’s cheeks gently, and peers between them.

And oh _God,_ it’s beautiful. He’s gorgeously messy, the evidence of John’s multiple releases leaking obscenely from his stretched hole. His rim looks inflamed with rough use. There’s no sign of tearing (John had already checked multiple times, but he does one last once-over for good measure), but he’ll surely be sore for days to come.

Something primal deep within him roars in victory.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds muffled from where his face is buried in his arms.

“Oh! Sorry, love. Just got a bit distracted. You look amazing, you know.”

“Hrmph.”

John presses the flannel against him as gently as he can, but Sherlock still hisses in pain and all but recoils from his touch.

Well, shit. This was supposed to be relaxing and unifying, not painful. Still, he can’t very well let Sherlock go to bed in this state; it would surely be unpleasant to wake up to, and the last thing he wants is for Sherlock to feel guilty or ashamed (which he’s read on the message boards can sometimes happen if subs are left unclean and then have to face the mess in the harsh light of day, without the dominant partner there to comfort them). He’s not sure that’s how Sherlock would feel, but he certainly doesn’t want to risk it.

So he simply lowers himself to his knees and licks a long, slow stripe from Sherlock’s perineum to his sacrum.

Sherlock makes a sounds as though he’s been punched.

John pulls away. “Alright, sweetheart?”

Sherlock answers so quickly he nearly stutters. _“Yes, oh my God, yes, please, John, just… YES.”_

“Hmm.” John makes a noncommittal sound before leaning back in to resume his attentions.

It’s surprisingly not entirely unpleasant. Thanks to the running water of the shower, John needn’t feel obligated to swallow the mess of lube and come as he laps it up; he simply turns his head and swishes out his mouth every few seconds to flush out the residue. 

At first he focuses solely on cleaning up the mess that had leaked out, but before too long, he finds himself prodding and sucking lightly against Sherlock’s hole, licking into him gently as Sherlock quivers and moans against the wall.

Eventually, he concludes that Sherlock is passably clean. He rises to his feet and aims the showerhead between Sherlock’s cheeks for one final rinse, then sprays himself down quickly, his own cleanliness an afterthought.

Finally, he flips the water flow from the shower to the faucet, and plugs the drain to draw a bath.

He takes Sherlock by the shoulders and turns him around. “You alright, love?”

Sherlock stares at him with glazed-over eyes, seemingly delirious from John’s affections. “John, that was… good. So good.”

“Mmm, I’m glad. Let’s have a bath now, yeah? Why don’t you sit down and I’ll make you feel even better.”

Sherlock sits so quickly John’s initially afraid he’s slipped, but he settles gracefully onto the floor of the tub, trailing his fingers absently through the rising water.

John grins to himself as he turns and grabs a small jar off the edge of the tub where he’d placed it earlier, then he moves to stand behind Sherlock before lowering himself into the tub as well, straddling Sherlock and coaxing him to lean back against his chest. Sherlock falls into place easily, his head lolling back to rest on John’s shoulder. John presses a warm kiss to his neck and stretches out his legs to bracket Sherlock’s.

“So I know how much you liked the menthol soak the last time we did this, so I found this and thought we might give it a try?” He holds up the little jar.

“What is it?” Sherlock’s speech is still a bit slurred, and John can tell his eyes are closed. He’s completely checked out. John smiles to himself.

“It’s a menthol massage oil. Would you like me to work on your back? I know tonight I was little rough on you.”

“Mmmm. In a minute. But can you just hold me for now?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Shhh, I’ve got you.” He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s chest and settles in.

They stay like that until the tub is full and John reluctantly has to lean them forward to switch off the taps. He positions Sherlock so that he’s seated, bent forward, his head drooping forward onto his chest, as John pours some of the oil onto his hands and begins to slowly massage his neck.

The moan that Sherlock issues is nothing short of pornographic. John pauses for a moment, then redoubles his efforts, working his way deliberately from Sherlock’s neck to his shoulders, then gradually down his spine.

Sherlock’s reaction exceeds all of John’s wildest expectations. He all but melts beneath John’s commanding hands, and John takes full advantage, working over his entire back and then down each of his arms until they’re resting limp and heavy at his sides. All the while, Sherlock continues to moan in his deep baritone voice, lost in the pleasure of the moment.

At long last, John has done all he can. He makes his way to his feet and steps out of the tub before gently guiding Sherlock to lean back and relax in the water. He dries himself off and turns towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock’s voice is sharp and demanding, and John jumps in surprise--seconds ago he was sure that Sherlock was moments from sleep, yet now he’s glaring at John with daggers in his eyes, a scowl on his face.

“I need to go change the sheets, love. I’ll be back to get you in just a few minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Is that alright?”

Sherlock huffs. “I guess.” He slips deeper into the bathwater with a belligerent scowl.

John smiles fondly at him and wraps his dressing gown around himself before making his way to the bedroom.

The bedroom is… well, it’s a disaster. There are belts scattered everywhere, Sherlock’s plug has been haphazardly discarded on the nightstand, the lube has tipped over and is leaking a pornographic pool onto the wooden floor, there’s come on the rug and come on the sheets and… Oh, Jesus, the pillow. The poor Union Jack pillow. What the hell had John been thinking? At the time, the idea had seemed deliciously pervy, but he’s suddenly horribly sentimental about the unceremonious defacing of an artifact so central to their domestic realm.

He makes quick work of most of it. He strips the bed and uses the ruined sheets to wipe up what he can off the floor and the nightstand, then chases it with a pass of a wet dish towel. He sweeps the plug and lube into the drawer--he’ll have time to deal with those tomorrow. Then he throws open the window to air the place out (even if it’s just briefly) while he remakes the bed with fresh sheets. The poor defiled pillow is placed on the chair in the corner--a project for another day. He hangs the belts back on their peg in the closet.

Satisfied, he makes his way back to the bathroom.

Sherlock is still utterly blissed out, and he smiles blearily up at John as he enters the room.

“Ready to get out, sweetheart?”

“Mmm. Yes, John.”

“Alright. Up you get, come on now.” John helps him out of the tub and towels him off before leading him into the bedroom, pulling back the sheets for Sherlock to slip effortlessly between. He reclines back onto the pillows and sighs.

“Feeling good, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Are you hungry? Would you like to eat before you go to sleep?”

Sherlock’s eyes light up so brightly John all but giggles. John has _never_ seen him look so excited about the prospect of food--not even dumplings, which were his well-known weakness.

“Yes, please, John. Food would be good.”

“Alright. You stay right here, I’ll be back.”

Sherlock grins up at him and snuggles decadently down into the pillows. 

John almost rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but he stops himself. He’s so _glad_ to see Sherlock enjoying this. It had taken them so long to find a good balance in their aftercare routine, and he’s beyond elated that Sherlock had finally taken an interest in finding out what worked himself as well as for John. 

And this part-- feeding-- is new. They’ve only done it once before, at Sherlock’s suggestion, and they had both found it immensely satisfying. John has to admit to himself that he’d been eagerly awaiting a Level 3 session so that they could try it again, and he’s ecstatic that the opportunity has finally presented itself.

He pads down the hallway to the kitchen, where he opens the fridge to grab the plate he pre-prepared while Sherlock was relaxing after their session, optimistically hoping that he’d acquiesce to some food before bed. He returns to the bedroom to find Sherlock smiling up at him expectantly, the flush from the hot bath still coloring his cheekbones an endearing shade of pink. 

John grins back and places the plate on the nightstand, removes his dressing gown, then climbs between the sheets. In no time at all, Sherlock is snuggled up next to him, his arm wrapped across John’s chest, their naked bodies pressed up against one another, sharing their mutual warmth. John twists and grabs the plate and balances it on the bed beside him. Then he takes a raspberry, plump and ripe, and lifts it to Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock parts his lips, and John guides the raspberry inside. Sherlock closes his mouth around John’s fingers and suckles lightly, swirling his tongue around them before pulling the raspberry from his grasp and leaning back to chew.

John takes a deep breath. Sherlock closes his eyes and hums in satisfaction.

Christ, this is good. _This is so good._

They make their way slowly, decadently, through the plate John has prepared. He’d had more time to plan than he did last time they did this, when the feeding had caught him off-guard, so this time he’d taken care to create a smorgasbord of bite-size delights; cubes of two different types of cheese, raspberries, blueberries, and a few morsels of decadent dark chocolate. Sherlock works his way diligently through all of it, lapping at John’s fingers as he offers him each delicious bite. In between mouthfuls they exchange long, luxurious kisses, tongues entwining, reveling in their intermingled breath.

John’s not sure what exactly it is about this that feels so preciously satisfying to him. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that he’s spent the better part of the last half-decade badgering Sherlock to eat, so the opportunity to actually feed him up properly (and have him seemingly enjoy it) is both novel and reassuring. Or perhaps it’s the way it makes him feel simultaneously powerful and benevolent, having Sherlock so completely dependent on him--and for once, openly and willingly so. All he knows is that the lips and tongues and breath and the shattering intimacy of it all are so overwhelming, he feels almost intoxicated with love for the man in his arms.

Finally, the plate is empty, and Sherlock is licking the last of the chocolate from his lips.

“How was that, sweetheart?”

“Perfect, John. It was _perfect.”_

“Good. Are you tired?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright, then.” He places the plate on the nightstand and switches off the light.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock is asleep within minutes.

John, surprisingly, is not. For all the fatigue he’d felt earlier in the kitchen, he now feels strangely awake, bolstered by a second wind apropos of nothing.

But he doesn’t want to disturb Sherlock. He’s dead asleep, his legs twisted in the sheets, his torso bare and pale in the moonlight seeping in through the window, his hand still somehow clutched protectively around John’s arm, as if seeking an anchor even in his unconscious state.

So John simply lies back and observes him.

He’s gorgeous. _God,_ he’s so beautiful, and in this moment he looks so heartbreakingly peaceful and vulnerable all at the same time, his face relaxed and open as his eyelashes flutter in the wake of a dream.

John traces his fingers slowly, lovingly up his arm.

He stops at the crook of Sherlock’s elbow. The scars from his track marks are still visible there--hardly noticeable to the naked eye unless one happened to be looking, simply pale impressions in the perfectly porcelain skin.

John’s stomach twists. His thoughts traitorously return to their conversation from earlier that night. He wonders how many of those scars are there because of Victor.

No, that’s not fair.

Because some of those scars are there because of him, too.

He cannot take ownership of Sherlock’s past. All he can do is take pride in his future, a future that they will willingly share, without shame or fear. He wonders if perhaps he can introduce Moira to Sherlock, the next time she’s in town. He’s fairly certain they’d get on spectacularly.

And with that thought, he begins to drift off, a smile on his face.

******

John wakes to find the bedroom filled with the rosy glow of dawn.

It’s early still, but a combination of his hard-wired Army training and Rosie’s sleep patterns make having a lie-in a bit of a lost cause these days. He rolls over to check the clock; it’s only 6:12.

And he’s got nothing on today. It’s Monday, but he only works at the surgery on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, so there’s no obligation there. His mother will be by to drop Rosie off that afternoon, and she’ll probably want to have tea and a chat, but that’s hardly a bother anymore-- they’ve been getting on much better since Rosie’s been in the picture.

He sighs contentedly, and rolls over to see how Sherlock is faring.

His breath catches in his throat. Sherlock is still deeply asleep, but the evidence of their encounter yesterday has blossomed to the surface overnight. His wrists and forearms are a maze of deep purple bruises from his bindings, and he can see that the places on Sherlock’s neck where he’d bitten him are vibrantly red and inflamed. Not only that, but horrifyingly, there are dusty blue fingerprints imprinted across Sherlock’s throat, from where he’d tried to strangle himself against John’s hand before John had put a stop to everything and they’d sorted it out. His body is a map of John’s quest for complete domination.

Just then, Sherlock starts slightly, and his eyes flutter open. He registers John’s gaze immediately, and his face breaks into a warm smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“So who’s watching whom sleep, now?”

John blushes a bit, then shrugs. “You’re adorable when you’re unconscious, you know. Something about your face when you’re _not_ yammering in my direction is really particularly appealing…”

Sherlock gives him a playful shove, then stretches out luxuriously. A flicker of pain crosses his face.

“How are you feeling? Everything alright?”

“I’m…” Sherlock pauses and stretches again, then rolls his neck slightly, wincing. “I’m sore. Everywhere. But fine.” He seems to notice the bruises on his forearms for the first time, and his eyes light up with delight. He presses a finger to the darkest part, the area around his wrists where he was tied to the bedpost, and hisses.

“Good?”

_“Yes,_ John. Very good. It’s all…” He seems momentarily overwhelmed. “It’s all perfect. Thank you.”

“And thank _you_ for letting me have you. Last night was incredible.”

Sherlock snickers. “Oh, please tell me we’re not going to start exchanging formal pleasantries the morning after every one one of our sessions. ‘Why, thank you, good sir!’ ‘No, thank _you,_ I insist!’ ‘But really, old chap, the pleasure was all mine!’ ‘I must declare, it is I who experienced the greatest delight!’”

John barks out a laugh and pulls Sherlock into his arms, kissing him deeply. Sherlock pulls away after a moment, and they lay like that, noses nearly touching, eyes locked, legs tangled together, smiling at one another like the two love-drunk fools that they are.

Sherlock licks his lips and blinks. “How was your reunion?”

“It was… nice. Thanks for asking.”

Sherlock pauses, then nuzzles the pillow lightly before continuing. “Will you… will you tell me about her?”

John shouldn’t be surprised, and he’s not, really. When he’d sent Sherlock the picture from the reunion, he’d known that Sherlock would deduce the truth about his past with Moira. And really, there’s no sense in hiding it; after all, he’s made his peace.

“She and I were together on and off throughout our time at Bart’s. It was never serious-- at least, I did my part to keep it casual. Never let it be exclusive. Never talked about what we were or what we meant to each other. Sometimes she’d get a boyfriend and we’d call it off for a while. But we’d always fall back into old habits before too long.”

Sherlock nods. “And then?”

“And then it was time for graduation. And I enlisted.”

“She didn’t approve?”

John sighs. “Honestly, I don’t think her approval--or anything else about her, for that matter-- had much to do with it. My decision to enlist, it was… it was deeply personal. There was… there was a lot going on with my life, with my family, with my past, and everything else, and I just wanted to… I wanted to let it all go. And to some degree, I did. Something about the Afghan sun burned it all out of me. I came back changed. For better or for worse, I suppose it’s hard to say. But I severed those connections fairly completely in the process.” 

“Did that hurt her? That she was part of everything you left behind?”

John pauses to consider it. “I can’t imagine it didn’t, to some degree, but she moved on, and made a life for herself. A really good one. She’s happier now, I think. Just like me.”

He smiles fondly and takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling it to his lips for a kiss.

Sherlock issues a shy smile in return.

“Alright, then. My turn. Sherlock, I need to know… I need to know about Victor. Not just… not just the vague sense of it that you’ve told me, but the truth. The gory details. I need to understand what he means to you, so that I can try and process what happened between you this weekend.”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and averts his eyes, but he doesn’t withdraw his hand from John’s grasp. Finally, at long last, he speaks.

“My brother has always been meddlesome…”

By the time he’s finished with the story, John is so angry he’s nearly shaking. The depth of Mycroft’s betrayal is so incomprehensible to him, he wants to track him down then and there and beat him senseless with his own umbrella.

But Sherlock appears unaffected by the tale. He’s laid it out in simple, matter-of-fact terms, and when he’s done, he gazes at John expectantly, as though he wants him to accept it all at face value, too.

John takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking.

“I’m… Sherlock, that’s… horrible. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It is what it is. I realise now that it must have been difficult for Victor, too. I don’t think he knew what he was getting himself into until it was too late. And I think that’s why I agreed to see him.”

John doesn’t respond, giving Sherlock the freedom to continue. Eventually, he does.

“I think... I think I still needed some sort of closure to it all. Over the years I began to realise that it wasn't Victor's fault. Mycroft is... Mycroft is cunning. A master manipulator. There's a reason I consider him my archenemy. He's a formidable opponent in any game, and he played Victor for a fool.”

“Is Victor a fool?”

Sherlock sighs reluctantly. “No, he’s not. But I realise now he found himself caught up in something more complicated than he knew how to explain. I think for a while he truly believed he was doing me a service, and by the time he realised what was at stake, he didn't know how to back out.”

“That's a generous interpretation of those events.”

“I know that, John. To have agreed in the first place reveals a very telling weakness in character. That’s how I knew you were special, you know.”

John is caught completely off-guard. “What?”

“Don’t you remember? Mycroft offered you the same deal, the day we met. And you refused it outright. No questions asked.”

“Yeah, I suppose I did.”

“And why was that?”

“I don’t remember, exactly. Maybe it had to do with my recently-diagnosed trust issues. Or perhaps I somehow sensed that it would make it infinitely harder for me to get into your pants. Difficult to say.”

Sherlock giggles and gives John a playful shove.

“Whatever it was, I’m glad you refused. That was the moment that I knew for certain that I could trust you.” Sherlock’s hand wanders absently to John’s dog tags, which hang around Sherlock’s neck. “That meant more to me than you could have known.”

John leans in to kiss him again. Finally, he speaks.

“Do you want to take the case?”

“Hmmm?”

“Victor Trevor’s case. Do you want to take it?”

“You’d… you’d be alright with that?”

“Well, I may have to insist on an immediate halt of all late-night evidence reviews unsupervised in Victor’s hotel room, but aside from that, yes, I’d be alright with it.”

Sherlock blinks at him earnestly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” John’s fingers meet Sherlock’s where they’re tangled in the chain of his dog tags. John brings the tags to his mouth to kiss them, then presses them gently back to Sherlock’s chest. “I trust you.”

Sherlock’s silent for a beat, then he meets John’s eyes, his fingers still fondling the tags against his chest. “I’m meeting with a member of my network this afternoon to acquire some additional information. If all goes according to plan, we could meet with Victor tonight to finalize the details of the sting operation.”

A smile quirks the corners of John’s lips. “You want me to come along?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Of course. I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John draws him close and they kiss and kiss and kiss some more. The morning stretches out, taffy-slow and hazy, lost in each other and oblivious to the outside world.

And by the time they hail a cab for the hotel that evening, John knows they’re ready.

For whatever the future may bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This one ended up being more of an endeavor than I expected--hopefully it was worth it!
> 
> I'll start posting the "Fantasy" installments during November (so it's not too late for last-minute requests!), then perhaps on to some Christmas merriment? We shall see...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
